


Kieran

by FandomN00b



Series: Solona Amell and the Rebel Wardens in the East [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Co-Parenting, F/M, Leliana is rooting for them SO HARD, Parental fluff, begins during Awakening, co-parents to friends to...?, continues through Inquisition, parental angst, post-Origins, smash and smolder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-01-21 13:23:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21300158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomN00b/pseuds/FandomN00b
Summary: Alistair and Morrigan did what they had to in order to save Ferelden from the Fifth Blight, and, more importantly, Solona and/or Alistair from a noble Warden's death. The Dark Ritual gave them Kieran, and a reason to stay in touch after saving the world.
Relationships: Alistair/Morrigan
Series: Solona Amell and the Rebel Wardens in the East [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1529891
Comments: 105
Kudos: 57





	1. Vigil's Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrigan has just given birth in some hidden room below Vigil's Keep. The King of Ferelden just so happens to be visiting to check on the Warden-Commander's progress at the fortress.

“You have a son,” Solona whispered, motioning for Alistair to come and see for himself as Anders pushed his way out of the little room, looking a bit miffed.

“Don’t get his hopes up...” Morrigan muttered, ignoring Alistair so she could glare suspiciously at Anders on his way out.

Alistair, on the other hand, was beaming. “We have a son?!”

Morrigan nodded slowly, trying hard to hide the relief that still flooded through her now that the effort of labor was past. She looked up at him with a hesitant fondness, and Solona smiled to herself before ducking back out of the room to give them a few moments alone while she spoke with Anders.

He was waiting impatiently outside and he shook his head as soon as the door was shut behind her. "She says she doesn't need my 'Chantry magic'...I tried to explain to her that I am also an apostate, not some extension of the church, but --"

"But everything is well…?" Solona asked, unsurprised that Morrigan would refuse his attention or care. He was a stranger to her, after all. And the fewer people who knew about her and her child, the better, in her mind.

"As far as I can tell, mother and baby seem quite healthy. But the child has an odd..._aura_ to him? He barely cried at all."

"I'm sure it's nothing to worry about!" Solona said cheerfully. 

Far _too_ cheerfully. It wasn't like her at all, and Anders raised his eyebrows in question. He knew she was hiding something. 

The whole situation had been bizarre. The way she’d been hidden away below the Keep under cover of night. The way he’d been sworn to secrecy, “no matter what you see…” as though she’d been expecting something horrific to burst out of this woman’s womb. And now the newly-annointed King of Ferelden showing up for a visit _just in time_ to meet the baby.

He knew Solona and her companions had been through some shit during the Blight (who hadn't?), but he couldn’t imagine what all of the fuss could’ve been about if two of them had simply produced a child. Kings had bastards all the time. It was now public knowledge that _this_ King was one himself.

"Morrigan is a rather old soul…" she added quickly as some kind of explanation, before shooing him along the tunnel that led back up to the Keep. “And a powerful witch, so I’m sure she’s got everything from here…thank you! And remember...no blabbing about this to anyone.”

“You must think so little of me, Sol. Patient confidentiality is something I hold to be sacred.”

“I _know_ you love to gossip.”

...

“Would you like to hold the child?” Morrigan asked as Alistair stood staring in awe at them like he’d just walked in on something he shouldn’t have. He’d been invited, he had to keep reminding himself. She’d _wanted_ him to come.

“Can I…?” He already looked completely smitten with the son he was not to have any part in raising.

“If you can resist growing too attached to him.”

_Too late_, he thought, but didn’t dare to say it aloud, for fear she’d rescind the offer.

“As soon as I have recovered, I _will_ be leaving this place. Solona has been generous in offering us this temporary sanctuary, but we cannot linger. Her healer already senses that there is something unique about him.”

"I have a Templar in my company who would love nothing more than for me to let her _deal with the apostate_,” Alistair laughed, only half-joking, as Morrigan passed the little bundle carefully into his arms. “Just to keep you both safe…" he cooed as the baby squirmed, sensing his apprehensions through the sarcasm.

But he fit so naturally into the crook of his elbow that Alistair’s fears and anxieties about the well-being of this child quickly gave way to something far more powerful. As he dared to look down at him, he was certain he was the most miraculous, perfect, wonderful, precious thing he’d ever seen. 

“What shall we call you, little one?” he asked the baby. “Alistair, Jr.?”

Morrigan groaned. “He shall _not_ be named after a Fereldan dog lord.”

“Of course not," Alistair chuckled. "There will be bigger and better things for you…”

“His name is Kieran.”

“Oh?”

“Do you not approve?”

“No. I mean, yes. I -- it’s a good name...I like it.” He peered at the infant and smiled. And his heart nearly broke at the thought of ever letting go of him. Stroking the knuckle of his pinky gently down his cheek, he whispered, “Kieran…”

The baby turned toward his finger, his tiny mouth searching hungrily for a nipple.

“He wishes to feed,” Morrigan informed him.

Alistair sighed heavily. He knew this very well could be the last time he would ever get to see his son. Morrigan had said she would write, but visits were an unlikely possibility. Still, at least she’d allowed him to see him this once. He should be grateful for this moment. He couldn’t dare to allow himself to hope...

He handed the baby reluctantly back to his mother and decided to give them some privacy as Morrigan pulled her shawl down off her shoulder and allowed the baby to find her breast. As soon as he was out the door, he felt ridiculous about it, and had half a mind to march right back into the room and crawl into bed with them, refusing to leave. But Solona was waiting for him outside.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. I think so."

She tilted her head. She knew him better than this. Why even bother asking?

"No, of course not! But I suppose I will have to be."

“Are you at least happy you came?”

“Yes. He’s...perfect. I just...”

“He is pretty fucking cute,” she laughed. “Almost makes me want to have one someday…but Sweens will have to do for now. Besides, it's not like mine would have the soul of the Old God of Beauty. Knowing my luck, it'd be a hideous demon.”

Alistair shook his head sadly, refusing to look up into her eyes despite her attempt to lighten the mood with her irreverent humor. “I don’t know how I can go back to Denerim and just pretend he doesn’t exist. I can't even hate her for this. Because she's right. Please don't _ever_ tell her I said that...but --”

“I’m sorry, Alistair…”

“She promised she would write.”

“I’ll remind her of that.”

“And if she doesn’t...will you…? I mean, I know she’s not going to stay here, but I imagine she’ll keep in touch with _you_, if nobody else.”

Solona nodded. “I will.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank _you_…” she started. “Without this…”

“I don’t even want to think about that. We are all somehow alive. That’s all that matters. He is healthy and he is beautiful. And Solona...”

"Hm?"

He finally looked up at her, his face twisted simultaneously between joy and despair. “I have a son!" 

It was then that the tears he'd been trying so hard to keep in check finally began to flow. 

She could barely stand to see him like this. It was a brutal reminder of how young he was...how young they _all_ were...and to have been through so much already. So much responsibility foisted upon them. And now this...

She pulled him into her arms and he buried his face against her neck. Like he used to do on the really hard nights. But on those nights, at least she’d had Leliana with her to help comfort him. Or to comfort her afterwards. She somehow always knew what to say. What to do. To make everything seem less hopeless. And Wynne. And Zevran. And Shale. And even Sten.

She realized how alone all of them were now, scattered across Thedas, each of them doing their part to save the world that refused to stay fixed. She actually longed for the days of the Blight, when they could at least all still be together at camp. Sobbing, and laughing, and eating and drinking, and taking turns comforting one another in the darkness.

"I love you…" he sobbed. "But I don't know if I can ever forgive you for this."

"I know. But saving you was worth it," she murmured into the top of his head, squeezing him tight as his fingers dug into her mail and clenched at desperate fistfuls of silverite. “Even if you hate me.”

"I...have to go," he sniffed, pulling away from her.

"Yes. It was good of you to check in on us here in Amaranthine, Your Highness…” She winced as the unwanted title passed through her lips. Even though she’d meant it as a joke, she knew it was still painful for him to hear the title that had been mostly forced upon him. Especially coming from her.

"I want to stay here.”

"I know."

"But I can't."

"She knows, too, by the way," Solona tried to assure him, though she didn’t really know if this was much of a comfort to him. “She doesn’t hate _you_, either.”

"What about Kieran?"

"He'll grow up knowing his father wanted very much to be a part of his life."

"How do you know that?"

"The same way you know…"

He wiped the rest of his tears on the sleeve of his royal furs and turned to go without another word. 

Solona slumped back against the cold stone wall, wrestling her own rare sobs back down into her throat. 

She had some new recruits who had yet to undergo the Joining waiting for her now that they’d received the King’s approval of their operations here. Anders, obviously, she’d known since she was a girl in the Circle, and Nathaniel Howe, who had initially come seeking vengeance for the death of his despicable father, had somehow been convinced to join their cause instead. But she hadn’t even bothered to learn the others’ names. No point, really, until they’d survived the ritual. A dwarf from the Legion of the Dead, a Dalish witch, a corpse inhabited by a spirit of Justice...at least he was already dead...and already a Warden, she supposed, wondering how that whole thing worked.

With a shrug, she smoothed out her mail and steeled her expression before heading up to the Keep to prepare the Darkspawn blood she’d sent them out to retrieve with Oghren as their guide. Just as Duncan had done. Her job, she realized with a shaky sigh, now that she'd stopped a Blight, and made Alistair King, and sent Leliana to serve the Divine, and wished the others well on their own personal quests for atonement and absolution, would be to carry on where Duncan had left off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I just needed to cry today, okay?


	2. An Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just some notes passed back and forth clandestinely between the King of Ferelden and the new arcane advisor to Empress Celene of Orlais.

\---

A furiously-scribbled note delivered by hand via Isabela to Zevran to Leliana and finally to Morrigan in Orlais:

_Imagine my surprise to hear from Solona that you and Kieran had taken up residence with Empress Celene in Orlais. I know you’ve always enjoyed taunting me, but this seems a bit low, even for you. I recall you being utterly opposed to the idea of spending time among “the kind of people who would wish to ingratiate themselves to royalty at court.” And yet...Orlais, REALLY? The accents, and the masks, and the...everything. I know I’m not allowed to have a say, but...honestly. You’re within arms’ reach of the center of Chantry power...they need only send a Seeker to haul you both away if they so choose and I would be powerless to intervene from here._

\---

An elegantly-written letter delivered (along with several large bird droppings) to Alistair’s private study via one of Leliana’s ravens, Lucy:

_Your concerns, as usual, are entirely unwarranted, if not endearing in their simplicity._

_If you must, think of this as an opportunity. I'm sure you have ambassadorial duties to Orlais that will bring you close enough for a visit and not raise much suspicion. Far less than if an apostate and her bastard showed up in your own court, at any rate. And Sister Nightingale has assured me that she will inform me if the Divine suddenly takes an interest in our presence here. We can disappear quite easily, as I’m sure you are well aware._

_Kieran is well, by the way, and thoroughly enjoying being around so many new and interesting people. He must get that from you. Along with his ability to charm and delight them all. I find it all quite insufferable, though I must admit the access to the knowledge and resources at the Empress' disposal has been a boon for my work with Solona and the others._

\---

Sent back to Morrigan via aforementioned raven, who settled in and made a nest and raised three chicks in the tree outside of Alistair’s study that spring before he sent her back to Orlais with the following note (and a few additional ravens, one of whom would be called Baron Plucky):

_I just received an invitation from the Empress. I don’t suppose you had anything to do with this? I hope you’ve been discreet. Anora trusts me, I think, but we certainly have our detractors who would love nothing more than to find out the arcane apostate advisor to the Orlesian Empress has arranged some kind of visit to insinuate herself into the soul of Ferelden’s least-competent King. There’d be talk of mind control or blood magic or Maker-knows-what-else to justify my deposition. Not that I’d mind..._

_Also, sorry about the tone of my last letter. I know you always have Kieran’s best interests in mind, and I am glad to hear he’s enjoying the change in environment. It was just quite a shock. I look forward to seeing you both soon, even if I have to pretend to be dismayed at the prospect of heading west of the Frostbacks. You know, for the sake of all of my adoring subjects..._

_\---_


	3. Orlais

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair makes his first diplomatic visit to Orlais...

“Welcome to Orlais, _Your Highness_.” Leliana’s grin was nearly unbearable as he stepped out of the ridiculous carriage that had been waiting to escort him at the edge of the city to the Imperial Palace. She offered him her outstretched hand and he took it, meeting her obnoxious smirk with a grimace of his own.

“Wish I could say it was a pleasure,” he groused, finally getting a chuckle out of her as he wrinkled his nose.

“The pleasure is ours!” She leaned in close, pressing her lips to the side of his face and whispered, “_She_ already knows you’re here.”

If she had meant for that to be reassuring, she didn’t know him as well as he thought she did.

“Ah.” He swallowed the nervous lump in his throat, but it only spread out further down into a fluttery mess in his stomach.

“First, you have an appointment with the Empress, then the Divine, and then I would be happy to escort you wherever _else_ you’d like in the city.”

“Oh, how _gracious_ of them _both_ to meet with little old me.” He rolled his eyes.

Leliana laughed. Not her real laugh. Her ‘playing the Game’ laugh. It was as much a signal to him as it was an expertly played move for any others who might be watching their interaction. “Nonsense, Your Highness!” She tilted her head slightly, and her hair, which was much shorter than the last time he’d seen her, fell at an angle obscuring the corner of her mouth that would’ve revealed an involuntary little twitch of amusement. “You are an important and equal ally to them both.”

He _wanted_ to pull her into a bear hug and squeeze the Orlesian airs right out of her, but he wasn’t an idiot. He’d learned to read Leliana’s signals and, more importantly, to trust them.

She winked and rolled her left shoulder upwards ever-so-slightly and he tried not to be too obvious when he glanced up and behind her at the person in the window peering down at them, expecting to see some ridiculously-mustached Orlesian spy hiding behind one of those creepy masks.

But his mouth dropped, and he couldn’t help but stare when he realized it was a child who was watching them. A boy child. About the same age as Kieran ought to be. With dark hair and an eager expression. He was holding some sort of doll, glancing down at it and then back out the window at him.

“Is that…?”

Leliana nodded. “He’s delightful, by the way,” she whispered. “You’ll get to meet him soon enough. But for now, just give him a little smile and a nod.”

Alistair did as he was told, fighting every urge in his body – no, his soul – to run up and finally meet his son for the very first time. Well, it was technically the second time, but Alistair couldn’t assume the boy remembered the big, sad, clumsy man who’d held him and fallen in love with him at first sight shortly after his birth.

“He understands that your situation is…delicate.”

“Oh, I trust he understands a great deal. What other things do you suppose Morrigan has filled his head with against me?”

Leliana’s practiced smile turned gravely serious. “She hasn’t, Alistair.”

“Oh. Well…” He blushed. “Sorry. I’ll behave. I promise.”

“Come now!” She pulled on his arm, squeezing the inside of his bicep the way Solona used to, a gesture of comfort, or an apology, perhaps, that wasn’t _really_ hers to give. “You have an appointment to be fashionably late for, and I’d like to introduce you to my partner, the Right Hand. I think you will find her decidedly less…_Orlesian_.”

…

The meetings with the Empress and the Divine went as well as he could’ve imagined. Celene was vague and elusive, as expected, but polite, for the most part, and seemed genuinely appreciative of his visit, another step closer toward improved diplomatic ties between Orlais and Ferelden in spite of Teagan’s objections. She inquired overly-sweetly about Queen Anora, which was no doubt meant to put him on edge or suss out some information about the nature of their partnership. Celene probably wasn’t aware of the fact that when they returned to Ostagar, he and Solona had found the letters between Cailan and her about their plans to marry, but he was quite deliberate about dashing any potential hopes she might have had of proposing a similar arrangement with him.

He wasn’t sure if there could be a reciprocal invitation to Ferelden just yet, and whether or not Morrigan and Kieran might somehow find a way to be included in the Empress’ entourage without drawing too much suspicion. But he had to laugh to himself at the thought of Celene and Anora trying to outmaneuver each other in conversation. It would’ve been a dazzling, terrifying thing to watch. Their communication styles couldn’t have been more different, but their political savviness...his money would have been on his wife, the Queen, of course. But he was getting ahead of things. He would need to check with Anora and their own advisors before extending any official invitations.

While the majority of his boyhood ‘faith in the Maker’s goodness’ had been shaken apart long ago, he found his meeting with the Divine to be much more comfortable, though she certainly was _not_ what he’d been expecting. She had the sharp wit and discerning glare of a woman who hadn’t spent most of her life cloistered securely in a Chantry, but somehow still managed to be far warmer than he remembered any of the Sisters from his childhood being. He found her infinitely easier to speak with than the Empress, found her intentions much clearer to discern, her questions direct, and her irreverent laughter, for the most part, sincere. She’d inquired about his progress in reforming the ever-unstable Circle in Ferelden with genuine curiosity, it seemed. And Cassandra, the Seeker who served as her Right Hand, was, just as Leliana had promised, about the furthest thing from Orlesian he might have been able to imagine in this place.

But he couldn’t help but be a bit impatient as Leliana insisted on taking a more circuitous route around the city, so that he might be seen by all the _right_ people on their way back to the Palace.

“Are we done yet? Can I meet him? Isn’t there somewhere more..._comfortable_ where we might be able to do this?”

Leliana smiled. Actually smiled with all the genuine reassuring warmth he knew her capable of from their time together during the Blight.

“Apologies, _Your Highness_...but your guest quarters in the Imperial Palace are about as private and secure as anywhere in Val Royeaux.”

He lowered his voice, taking her cue for discretion more seriously as he spotted the eavesdroppers on the balcony above them, and whispered, “Does the Empress know?”

“That you’ll be staying in her palace? Yes…” Leliana eyed the woman leaning back away from the balcony railing, trying to see if she recognized her before she disappeared back into the second story apartment.

“I mean, does she _know_ about…”

“No. Well, not that _I_ know of, anyway. I don’t imagine Morrigan has told her, either.”

“Ah. Good. Um...lead the way, then, I suppose,” he grumbled loudly.

As they got closer and closer to the Imperial Palace, Alistair felt that nervous fluttering, low in his belly, again, and suddenly found himself wishing Leliana had continued parading him around like a prized mabari, if only to delay the one meeting on his busy ‘schedule’ that really mattered to him here.

...

Leliana nodded in warm acknowledgment to the elven woman and her assistant who seemed to be waiting for them upon their return. Her curly, dark reddish-brown hair was pinned back into a large, loose bun, and while she wore finer, more ornate clothes than many of the Empress’ other servants that he’d seen bustling about the place, the conspicuous absence of one of those wretched masks marked her as something other than a courtesan.

“If it’s alright, I can show the King to his guest quarters. We are old acquaintances.” Leliana smiled sweetly at the woman, bowing slightly as her hair fell back across the side of her face.

“He will be accommodated in the Imperial residences. Access is restricted for anyone but those with explicit permission from the Empress.”

“Yes,” Leliana said with another sly nod. “As he is also a guest of the Divine, we have been made aware of the arrangement, and I’m _sure_ the Empress would not mind that Her Holiness’ trusted Left Hand be allowed to accompany such an important guest to be certain all his _needs_ are being met.”

The elven woman raised an eyebrow at her. There was something in Leliana’s words and body language that raised the corner of her lips into a knowing smirk as well. “Oh, it’s like _that_, then? Well, far be it for me to interfere in the _Divine’s_ plans…”

Leliana curtsied in gratitude, as the woman motioned for them to follow her. She pulled a tiny white statue of a halla out of her pocket and pressed it into an opening in the large, ornate door in front of them.

“Last door on the right. There will be more servants along to bother you shortly.”

Leliana nodded more earnestly this time. “Thank you.”

As soon as she had left them and shut the heavy door behind her, Alistair hissed, “What was that all about?!”

“She believes that we are lovers.”

“What?! Leliana!”

“It’s fine. She has a soft spot for secret love affairs. And this is good cover, no?”

“How in the Maker’s Name…”

“She and I have the same job.” Leliana smiled and tucked her hair back behind her ear. “Except _she_ works for Celene, and I work for Divine Justinia.”

“I don’t underst --” 

Before he could finish, a full entourage of Palace staff was bustling hastily towards them from the opposite end of the hall. The procession was led by an elven man who looked as though he was about to scold them all, Alistair and Leliana included.

“Oh! Excuse me! We were expecting your arrival a bit later, Your Highness.” The man bowed as he reached them.

“_We_…?”

“The Empress has asked us to escort you to your quarters and to see that everything is to your specifications.”

“But we already…”

The man looked at him expectantly, and Leliana cleared her throat. “The King is tired from his travels and wished to return sooner for a rest before the evening festivities,” Leliana intervened. “I trust this is not a problem?”

The man looked skeptically at Leliana, his eyes lingering on the Chantry starburst emblazoned across her collar, and nodded slowly. “It’s..._fine_. Would His Highness appreciate a bath?”

“No!” Alistair shouted, sounding far more irritable than he’d intended. Leliana nodded encouragingly at him. “No, err, sorry. Just some _bloody_ rest.” He played up his Fereldan accent as best he could, and her eyes crinkled in delighted approval as she giggled like some kind of flirty courtesan.

The other man grumbled something at the servants behind him and sent them away, turning back toward Alistair and pulling a key out of one of his many front pockets. “If there is anything you need, please don’t hesitate to notify me, Your Highness.” He placed the key firmly in Alistair’s hand.

“I will.” The stereotypical ‘Fereldan gruffness’ was gone. “Thank you.”

“Very well.” He eyed them both one more time. “Have a _restful_ afternoon.”

Leliana grabbed the key from Alistair’s hand and opened the door excitedly. 

“Your quarters…” she mused, presenting the suite, in all of its stuffy Orlesian finery, to him in her best impression of the man they’d just dismissed. “Make yourself as comfortable as possible, and don’t worry about the adjoining door between your suite and the next. It locks on both sides, and the residents on the other side, the Empress’ Arcane Advisor and her son, mostly keep to themselves, I’m told.”

His eyes lit up, and he finally pulled her into the hug he’d been saving all day. “Thank you, Leli. For arranging…”

“It was _her_ idea.” She brushed a hand through his hair, which he’d allowed to get considerably longer now that he wasn’t constantly in battle, and planted a tiny peck on his cheek. “Enjoy your time with them,” she whispered, before turning and practically skipping out of the room and back down the hall.

_Them_.

He eyed the door again, sloughing off his heavy fur-lined leathers. They had been mostly for show and complete overkill in the warm Orlesian sunshine which reflected its burdensome rays back at him in all the polished gold and bright gleaming marble of the capital. 

He reached for the lock, then stopped, realizing he still had his sword equipped. He hastily unbuckled the ceremonial belt and sword, tossing them to the floor as unceremoniously as he’d taken them up back when Solona had forced him into this role. Normally, he’d take the time to stow them away somewhere more responsibly, but he was too excited, too anxious, too nervous to care about anything except what awaited him on the other side of that adjoining door.

He approached the door again, unencumbered by the _superficial_ burdens of his position, at least, and began to slide the lock on his side open. It was loud...rough metal scraping against unoiled metal, and had clearly only been opened a handful of times since it had been installed. 

He stopped again, made suddenly self-conscious by the sound and the way the door seemed to resist against his eagerness. Should he knock _before_ trying the handle? Had Morrigan left her side open? Should he wait for some other signal from her? What if he was being too hasty? Leliana had done everything to assure him he was welcome here. But what if Kieran wasn’t ready? What if _he_ wasn’t ready?

Before he could flee and hide and just pretend Leliana hadn’t told him, he heard a soft click and the heavy door seemed to open of its own free will. Morrigan was somehow standing several feet away, looking as cool and composed as ever. A boy...his _son_, _Kieran_...his _SON_, stood next to her, peering curiously at him.

“Kieran. This is the King of Ferelden.”

“I _know_ who he is!” The boy nodded enthusiastically, taking a step toward him.

“You...do?” Alistair looked to Morrigan with uncertainty as he carefully approached the boy. How much had she told him? How much would he need to explain? How does one simply march up to their child and introduce themself after so many years? He didn’t exactly have either of his own parents to look to as a model for this sort of thing.

Kieran held up the doll he’d had earlier, waving it emphatically in front of him. “Yes! Of course! You are Alistair Theirin. You are a Grey Warden. You are the son of the legendary Fereldan King Maric! You travelled with my mother and Auntie Solona and Sister Leliana during the Fifth Blight, and you helped to defeat the Archdemon and end the Blight before being crowned King.”

“Oh. Yes...” He knelt down in front of him, examining the doll, and realized it was the same one Solona had given Morrigan ‘as a joke’ all those years ago -- a crude, miniature facsimile of him for the witch to take her anger and frustrations out upon. “Well...all of that makes me sound a bit more important than I really am.” 

Alistair shot Morrigan a quick glance of recognition as she pretended to have no idea why he was looking at _her_ in spite of the darkening of her cheeks. 

“_And_ you’re my father...right?” Kieran hugged the doll to his chest. “The one who sends letters and gifts on my birthday and on every Feastday?”

Morrigan’s eyes grew wide. She had never really tried to keep it a secret from him, but she hadn’t thought it her place to reveal his father’s identity to him, either, doing her best to assure him that in spite of his absence, he was a kind, decent person, who, in other circumstances, would have most likely wanted to take a more active role in his life.

“Oh, don’t worry, Mother._ I’m_ not going to tell anyone.”

“Yes!” Alistair finally managed to answer him, laughing triumphantly. “Yes, I am! The mysterious notes and the piles of toys and candy all came from me!” He beamed up at Morrigan, his eyes glistening with gratitude. He had never been entirely certain until now that she had been passing his gifts and correspondences along to their son.

“Auntie Solona sends stuff, too, but it’s usually just books.” The little boy wrinkled his nose and for the first time, Alistair knew what it felt like to see himself reflected in some smaller version of himself standing before him.

“_Knowledge_ is not so easily gobbled up or broken…” Morrigan murmured at their son, while glaring down at Alistair as his relief and joy began to overwhelm him, in spite of her critique. She was not prepared for him to completely dissolve like this in front of the boy, though it shouldn’t have taken her by surprise, she supposed. He had always been like this. Silly and careless with displays of his emotions. Too open. Far too honest. _Sweet_. 

She shook her head, and motioned for him to stand. Expected or not, this pitiful display most certainly should not have aroused such sudden fondness within her. “Let us have a proper seat, shall we? I had tea brought in before you got here, and I imagine you two have a bit to catch up on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been seeing some amazing Morristair fan art lately, which inspired me to come back to these two..._three_...and this doll, man...*sniff* (mossandbones' art, in particular, inspired part of this chapter, which you should definitely check out [on Tumblr](https://mossandbones.tumblr.com/post/615915035702755328/she-accidentally-kept-the-alistair-doll-all))


	4. Mothers and Daughters and Sisters and Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair confronts Morrigan about her sister and the things he uncovered in Antiva and Seheron while searching for his father.
> 
> Warning: This chapter is WAY HARSH...Alistair and Morrigan bring all their baggage! Features people being angry and hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place immediately after the events of the graphic novels _The Silent Grove/Those Who Speak/Until We Sleep_. I know the graphic novels can be somewhat ill-regarded, but I am a sucker for drama, and they are chock full of unexplored consequences and angst for these two that I couldn't just ignore.

\---

_Please meet me in Kirkwall as soon as you can arrange transport. Come alone. I have some matters I’d like to discuss with you regarding your mother and your sister._

_A._

\---

_I hope you realize that this is a terribly inconvenient time to summon me for idle conversation, and your letter was infuriatingly vague. I do not know of any sisters, aside from the ignorant rumors that small-minded people have been spreading for years, and you are well-aware of my ambivalence towards my mother. Those matters aside, I shall be there within a week of your receiving this, assuming the bird does not get lost or the boat I have secured passage on does not sink or get commandeered by pirates._

_M._

\---

He was waiting on the docks as she disembarked, trying her best not to let the past few days of sea travel show as she sauntered carefully down from the ship. But of course _he_ noticed her greenish pallor, and the way her steps down the uneven gangplank were even more calculated than usual. The sea must not have been kind to her.

_Good_, he thought, with some degree of vindictive delight, banishing any guilt or concern for her that might have crept over him as he watched her approach with cool, well-trained indifference.

She nodded at him, her dark raspberry-colored lips pressing together and twisting into a deliberately-aggravating smirk. “Leliana’s buzzard managed to find you, I take it? Or have you just been waiting here for me this whole time, fretting?”

That arched eyebrow. That little twitch of her shoulder, the tiniest tilt of her chin...it was all infuriating to him now. The last he’d seen of this, of Flemeth’s careful ‘training,’ had been on Yavana.

Fortunately, he had also learned over the years how to maintain his _Kingly_ composure to rival the eerie self-possession of any Witch of the Wilds.

“Morrigan.” His tone was shockingly colder than hers and she froze, a bit taken aback by this unprecedented shift -- by comparison, she’d _almost_ sounded happy to see him.

“Alistair…?”

“Come with me.”

“A bit _bossy_ today, aren’t we?” she teased half-heartedly, trying to elicit a more familiar reaction. A grimace or an eye-roll or a pouty huff at least...just a bit of their usual back-and-forth before getting into whatever it was that had put him in such a _mood_.

But he ignored her playful jibe, turning away from her without breaking his stony expression and walking briskly down the dock.

She followed him wordlessly to another ship as she tried to ignore the unnerving sense that she had completely misinterpreted the purpose of this meeting. She had always been the one to dictate the terms of their visits, or lack thereof. And Kieran had always been at the center of them. 

“_The Apostate’s Whore_...?” she asked warily as she followed him up the gangway, reading aloud the name that had been scrawled across the bow in a flowery script. She had really been hoping for a more civilized meeting-place, but it was becoming clear that most of her expectations were likely to go unmet. The unique figurehead caught her eye, at least -- a mage, presumably male if the short beard was meant to be an indicator, in ragged robes and feathery pauldrons with his staff raised out in front of him. _Intriguing_.

“It belongs to a friend,” Alistair murmured. “You may remember Isabela, the duelist we met in Denerim during the Blight?”

“Mmm...I do,” Morrigan hummed. “I did not realize the two of you had kept in touch.”

“Leliana put us in contact because I needed someone I could trust to get me to Antiva to investigate rumors about my father. And anyway, she’s proven herself_ loyal_.”

Something about the way he emphasized that last word made Morrigan’s stomach drop. Like she was being scolded for something. Was she meant to be feeling _jealous_...or threatened? 

What _was_ this? And why had she allowed herself to be summoned here so readily?

She tried to get a sense of his intentions as she narrowed her eyes on him, but he wouldn’t even look at her as he led her past leering crewmen up the stairs to the Captain’s Quarters.

She had obviously been too trusting. Too eager to believe that there was some kind of mutual respect developing between them after all these years of tiptoeing carefully around each other’s feelings. Friendship? Had she really allowed herself to believe that’s what this was? _Foolish girl_, Flemeth’s voice admonished her.

“I believe you two have met,” Alistair waved haphazardly at Isabela as they entered her quarters. 

Morrigan gave her a chilly nod of acknowledgment.

“It’s a shame you _both_ didn’t feel like playing Wicked Grace with us that night.” Isabela flashed her a dangerously winning grin which was reflected in the glint of the well-polished daggers she wore behind her back.

Perhaps that worked on some people, but Morrigan was unimpressed. “Am I allowed to inquire what exactly _this_ is meant to be?”

“We’ve just come from Antiva,” Alistair said, as if this should have meant something to her.

“So you said.”

“Where we were lured into a trap by your sister.”

“A sister whom I have never known, nor heard of...but _do_ go on.”

“Well, she seemed to know quite a bit about _you_.” There was an accusation there, and a viciousness in his face and in his voice that she had only ever seen once before, when they had challenged Loghain all those years ago. “She explained how Flemeth had been involved in her gaining access to my father when he ‘disappeared’ ten years ago. Just before the Blight. She was specifically interested in his blood...Calenhad’s blood. Something to do with awakening ancient dragons?”

“This is all _very interesting_…” Morrigan drawled, trying to mask her growing unease. “But I’m afraid I still do not understand why this has begun to feel like some kind of interrogation.”

He took a step forward, practically looming over her. “I killed her.”

Morrigan fell silent, the snippy retort she had loaded and ready for him suddenly forgotten in the shock of this revelation. She had certainly never thought of him as a _killer_. In self-defense or in defense of others during battle, he could certainly be formidable. Or when his profound sense of duty dictated it, she supposed. But _this_?

She swallowed slowly, delicately, trying to keep her heartbeat from pounding out through her throat as she fought back the rush of panic rising in her chest. She knew Alistair still retained his Templar abilities, lyrium or not, and if he wished to, he could render her completely defenseless.

“I hope you had a better reason than the mere fact that she was my sister.” Her voice was hoarse, in spite of all her efforts to sound just as bored and disinterested with this conversation as she had up until now, but still she glared up at him as defiantly as ever.

Isabela’s menacing smirk finally broke then, as her eyes darted to Alistair, then to Morrigan, then back to him.

“I -- ” he stammered.

“Did you summon me here to kill me, then, too?” She was trapped, at his mercy. But she couldn't let him hear the sob of desperation that she’d buried down deep within her.

“No! That’s not -- I mean, I don’t -- she had been holding my father prisoner for _ten years_!”

“Has it ever occurred to you that my mother did not deign to inform me of every one of her schemes? Not even a fraction of them, in fact. And never in their entirety.”

“But you and your sister and Flemeth...all you _do_ is manipulate and lie!” 

“She’s used _me_, too!” Her eyes burned, but she refused to look away from him and she would _not_ let him see her cry. “Like she uses everyone! Even this _sister_ I had no knowledge of until now.”

“It _can’t _just be a coincidence that _you_...that you…”

“Say it, Alistair,” she hissed. “What am I, a _witch_, being accused of here?”

Alistair turned toward Isabela for help, who was staring down intently at the floor now, suddenly wishing she could teleport or faze through the deck of the ship, anything to not be in this room as it finally dawned on him how wrong he’d been. She liked him, respected him, even, but the witch was telling the truth, as far as Isabela could tell. And she usually had a knack for knowing whether or not someone was full of shit.

“Well?” Morrigan demanded.

“My father! By the time we got to him, there was nothing left of _him_, and I had to…” He crumbled then, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of the whole world had suddenly been thrust upon him. “Nothing. I’m not accusing you of anything. I just…”

Why did she suddenly want to reach out and hold him? What was this absurd, entirely undeserved sympathy? Seeing him broken and suffering like this seemed to hurt her nearly as much as it hurt that he would think she had been plotting against him this entire time.

He looked so much like Kieran. Or rather, Kieran looked like him. That must be it. In this pitiful display, she saw their young son, throwing a rare tantrum, and her motherly instincts to soothe and protect the fragile creature in front of her were simply projecting onto him.

“Is it fate or chance? Or are we all just pawns in someone else’s game..._I_ never can tell,” she sighed.

Isabela raised an eyebrow at this, and Alistair let out a shaky, defeated laugh. “Well, _that’s_ hardly reassuring.”

Morrigan shrugged. She had never really coddled their son, either.

“I’m sorry. I just thought…”

“I’m perfectly aware of what you thought.”

“Can you blame me?”

Her cold sneer prickled at the neediness in his face. He had lost a father he’d never really known, killed a sister she’d never even known existed, and who knows what else he’d just been through in the process. She didn’t want to excuse him for his readiness to turn on her, but there were Kieran’s eyes staring back at her after he’d been caught sneaking cakes from the kitchens or spying on gossipy nobles.

“I suppose not.”

“Come to Ferelden,” he pleaded. 

His shifting demeanor and demands were beginning to feel a bit dizzying. Morrigan had lost count of the number of times he’d suggested this over the years, but he sounded more desperate than ever. Was this fear? More paranoia? Misguided chivalry? Guilt? Perhaps he simply did not trust her.

“We’re planning on granting asylum to the rebel mages at Redcliffe. You don’t have to stay at court with me in Denerim or anything like that, just…somewhere safer. Somewhere closer than Orlais. Please, Morrigan.”

"What does your _wife_ think of this arrangement?” Morrigan tried to hide the bitterness in her words, but she was still whirling from his previous accusations and the revelations he’d shared with her just moments prior.

What _was_ Flemeth planning, anyway? What were their parts to play in all of this talk about awakening dragons and Calenhad’s blood? There were legends about him, and certainly a great deal of power in blood, but she would need to get back to her studies in Orlais to piece together her mother's interest in such mattters. She’d need to write to Solona to see what she had uncovered about the connection between Maric and the Grey Wardens. She was wasting time having this pointless conversation _yet again_, with Alistair. He’d given her plenty of things to consider and she was beginning to get anxious about returning to their son, even though she wanted to keep believing that Kieran was as safe as he could be in Leliana’s care.

“It has nothing to do with Anora,” Alistair said, trying to counter her stubborn reservations with his own shaky resolve.

“You may be the King of Ferelden. But she is the Queen. I refuse to put myself or my son at the mercy of another. And I most certainly do not wish for him to be viewed as a competitor for your throne.”

"You wouldn’t be at anyone’s _mercy_! And trust me when I say that I wish to protect him from this burden as much as you or anyone else. But I _can_ offer you and Kieran protection! From Flemeth. From the Templars. From…whatever horrible thing comes next.”

"Oh, don’t pretend to be so naive!” She laughed. “You know that we are safer on our own.” 

She turned away from him, gazing out over the horizon. “Perhaps we should return to the Wilds? If we head west…? Chances are she will still find us. How best to delay her until I know more…” she muttered, more to herself now than to him. “But if she reveals herself in Orlais, at least we have the mirror…” 

"Shouldn’t I get _some_ say in this? In the fate of my own flesh and blood?”

She whipped back around to face him. “This blood that you speak of with such conviction…what has it ever brought _you _besides grief? When you agreed to this --”

“_Agreed_? I don’t really remember being given a chance to _dis_agree! It was _your_ idea, and if Solona hadn’t forced it upon me…”

“Then you, or Solona, or perhaps both of you would have had to perish slaying the Archdemon and Kieran would never have existed. What is your _point_, Alistair?”

“Look.” He took a deep breath, trying to keep his emotions more in check. “I know Flemeth was a terrible mother, and you never knew your own father, and that's all well and good since men are all worthless and horrible, but this is no excuse for subjecting our son to potential harm and keeping him away from me out of_ spite_!” 

She glared at him, the sudden fierceness of a mother dragon in her piercing golden eyes. It had been one thing to be suspected of conspiring with her mother and sister against _him_. Childish hurt feelings aside, Flemeth _had_ certainly orchestrated a great many things between them. And she would be lying if she pretended she did not live in constant worry about what she might possibly still have in mind for them. But _this_...

“I am well aware that I am many things you may find undesirable in a mother,” she seethed. “But I will _never_ be the mother Flemeth was to me.” 

She stood up straighter, composing herself just enough to deliver one final stinging barb. “As for your other assertions, I understand..._completely_. Consider your obligations to me and to Kieran fulfilled.”

“That’s not what I --” 

She shoved her way past him, and he reached for her, but stopped himself before grabbing her arm.

“Morrigan! Wait!”

She refused to acknowledge him and continued on as dignified as she could manage as she hurried down the stairs, across the deck of the ship, and down the gangplank. Her quick, self-conscious saunter betrayed her hurt to him most of all.

“You’re not planning on chasing after her, I hope?” Isabela asked.

“No.”

“Good.” She slung an arm around his shoulders as he stifled a sob against her. “You _were_ being kind of an ass, sweet thing.” 

“I know...” He turned back to watch as Morrigan disappeared among the crowds that had filled the docks.

“Probably best to give her some time and some space to cool off.”

He slumped down onto Isabela’s couch, letting his head fall into his hands, wondering with dismay if he'd ever get a chance to see Kieran again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This would've been perfect if I'd have been able to finish it and post it on Mother's Day. I always find myself thinking about Flemeth, Morrigan, Kieran, and Kate Mulgrew in general this time of year. Weird.


	5. The Winter Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King of Ferelden attends an Orlesian ball. There is scheming, of course, because _Orlais_!

A letter found in the King’s study in Denerim:

_Alistair,_

_You may be hearing something. First of all, ignore it. It’s not real. Everyone down here is hearing it, too, and that’s not how it should work. At least, that’s what we’re all telling ourselves._

_I’ve got some feelers out, a couple of Wardens working with my cousin and that dwarf she’s friends with to try and figure out what’s behind Clarel’s mandate, and the rest of us are staying put until we know more about what’s going on. You should, too. Maker knows you've got enough nugshit going on up there to deal with. You can say I kicked you out of the Wardens or something. If you need me to, I can forge some "official" documents and have someone hide them away in the records vault at Vigil's Keep. _

_All of this has definitely lit a fire under everyone else's asses to find a cure and I have a good feeling about our latest lead...something Morrigan uncovered in her travels, actually! Leli seems excited about an impending trip to Orlais to see her and Kieran again. I know she’s very busy with all this Inquisition business, but maybe you can arrange another ‘diplomatic’ visit, too? She misses all of you dearly._

_Take care, and give my regards to Anora,_

_Sol_

...

A note folded carefully on the vanity of the Arcane Advisor to the Empress in Orlais:

_We have been invited to the Empress’ ‘Winter Palace’ for some sort of ball or something? This seems more like Leliana’s doing than yours, so I won’t get my hopes up about seeing you or Kieran there. Especially after how I acted in Kirkwall. But please know that I regret pretty much everything about that. I was hurt and I was angry, and I made a lot of unfair assumptions and none of that excuses any of it, I know..._

_I just hope you and Kieran are well._

Next to this lie a few more notes bearing the Nightingale’s sigil written in some kind of code and a rough-drawn map of Thedas with the Inquisition insignia marking a location in the northern Frostback Mountains on the border between Orlais and Ferelden. There is a blank piece of parchment with a few small droplets of ink on it nearby, as if someone had, at various points of time, held a full quill just over the top of the page.

...

Alistair slumped onto the upper balustrade with a grunt, staring listlessly at the gilded ballroom below.

“Well, well. What have we here?” 

He spun around at the familiar sound of her voice, his face brighter than the glistening chandelier behind him. “Morrigan! I had _hoped_…” His face fell just as suddenly as it had come to life and he looked down apologetically at his feet. “Well, I don’t really know what I had hoped.”

“You had perhaps hoped I would’ve disappeared into another mirror again?” 

“No! That’s _not_ \--” He shook his head. Not that he would've blamed _her_ for not wanting to speak with him ever again. But she couldn’t have possibly thought that _he_ wouldn’t have wanted to see her or Kieran? “When I didn’t hear from you after my last letter, I just assumed…” 

"Leliana told you I'd be here, did she not?"

"She..._did_..."

"Good." She nodded curtly, but he could’ve sworn he’d caught the tiniest hint of a smile.

Morrigan waited half a moment for him to respond, before her chin lifted ever so slightly. "I trust that you and the Queen are enjoying the festivities?”

“No,” he groaned, “Not at _all_!” 

Morrigan smirked delightedly, then, in spite of herself. 

“Anora is almost as miserable as I am here. I don’t know how you’ve done it these past few years.” 

“Well, I typically try to avoid people in general,” she drawled. “And _these_ people, more specifically.”

Alistair laughed. Then he snorted. Then he laughed again. And as his eyes twinkled with mirth and relief at the fact that she was even speaking to him after what an ass he’d been the last time they’d seen each other, he finally allowed himself to take in the sight of her. 

She was actually wearing a _gown_. A formal Orlesian ball gown, though she’d clearly had it made to spurn the pastels currently favored by the other members of Celene’s court. It was a dark rich burgundy velvet, trimmed with silver and gold embroidery and dark feathery lace embellishments around the deep plunging neckline. Her golden collar necklace somehow both highlighted _and_ drew one’s eyes down away from her stridently unmasked face. The bodice, made of some kind of smoky metallic silk, looked more like armor, but was fitted tightly all the way down past her hips, where darkly-dyed silk dotted with a silver insect pattern spilled out with a fullness under the skirting to rival the Empress herself. 

“That dress…” he began with a smugness Morrigan had always refused to tolerate. 

“Your _son_ chose this. Tread carefully.”

“No! It’s...nice. I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in anything so...” 

Morrigan rolled her eyes and exhaled impatiently. “Go ahead. Get it out of your system. I left my hexing materials back in the suite.” 

He stared for just another moment, pursing his lips, disappointed he couldn’t think of anything particularly spiteful or clever to say about it, and simply declared, “You look nice,” with a sigh and an earnest smile.

Morrigan tried to hide the sudden feeling of vulnerability she felt behind an irritated glare. 

Alistair, of course, saw right through it, and decided to at least spare her any more of _his_ scrutiny. “Has Leliana seen you yet? I feel like she would _love_ this.” 

“The Inquisition’s Spymaster seems a bit pre-occupied with all of the political intrigue and assassination attempts. I seem to have foiled one myself already. An agent from Tevinter...” 

“Oh, right. I almost forgot this was an _Orlesian_ social event. No less than five attempted murders, otherwise it doesn’t count, right?”

“Indeed.” Morrigan’s eyes flitted toward something happening behind him briefly, then returned to him. “But I _do_ intend to speak with her at some point this evening. We have some important matters to discuss. Have _you_ spoken to her yet?” 

“You mean other than the obligatory ‘_good evening, Your Majesties’_…” He bowed slightly, tilting his head a little to the side just like Leliana would. _“_And _‘oh, hello, Person-Who-Once-Hid-My-Smallclothes-in-the-Tent-of-the-Future-Arishok’_…?”

Morrigan nodded, the corner of her mouth twitching up in fond recollection of Leliana’s campsite antics during the Blight.

“Then no. Just the formalities so far.”

“And what do _you_ make of this Inquisitor, the supposed Herald of Andraste?”

“She seems..._nice_…?”

“I had so hoped you might have learned some new words in the past decade. Would you like to borrow one of Kieran’s lexicons before you depart?”

“Sorry...the Inquisitor. Right. Um, well, aside from the hole in the sky which they say only _she_ can fix, there _was_ that whole thing with the mages in Redcliffe, you know. Time magic, I guess? Who knew that was a thing? Anyway, we’d just granted Fiona and her rebel mages asylum there, but then this evil Magister from Tevinter got involved, and...well, before anyone really knew what was happening, the Inquisitor had somehow dealt with him and declared the mages _her_ allies and recruited them into the Inquisition, which solved _our_ problem, at least. But then, of course, there was the attack on Haven, and...”

“Perhaps now is not the time to retell it _all_,” Morrigan murmured in a tone he’d heard her use with their son when he got especially excitable.

“Yes. Of course. _You’re_ right. Anyway...somehow, in the midst of everything that’s wrong in the world, I’ve begun to hear the Calling! So how fun is that, hmmmm?”

Morrigan’s eyes went wide, and the look of smug disinterest she’d been so carefully maintaining as he rambled on about current events vanished. 

“Alistair!” she hissed, pulling him into the shadowy corner she’d been occupying as she kept an eye on things in the main ballroom below.

“It’s fine.”

“You should have -- “ Should have _what_? _Told_ her? She was not his wife. She was barely even his friend if their last encounter was any indicator, and she certainly hadn’t done anything to give him the slightest indication she cared about his well-being since then. “When did this start?”

“A couple months ago? Solona thinks it’s nugshit, of course. The others are hearing it, too, but, as usual, she seems to think she can defeat it through sheer force of will or something. She says she’s close to a cure and to ignore the orders coming out of Orlais from Warden-Commander Clarel. She always says those kinds of things, well, you know, but..._she_ seems to believe it. So...”

“Is this usually how it happens? Everyone hearing it all at once?”

“Well, no. Not to my knowledge, anyway.”

“Then surely something is amiss?”

“It’s not another Archdemon. That much I know. I don’t know how I know, but it’s just..._different_ than before.”

“I’m...sorry.” Her eyes darted distractedly from his face back down to the room below. “It’s imperative that I meet the Inquisitor at the right moment and she’s just disappeared again, but...”

“Yes, yes. Fine. The fate of the world depends on it, I’m sure.”

“I -- _Alistair_…” She was looking back at him now with pity, and this was the last thing he wanted. And she knew this. But how _else_ was she meant to react to this news? She looked away, steeling her expression into something more palatable to both of them. “We should speak more about this later. And of course, Kieran would be happy to see you. He has been asking when we might arrange another visit, so this will be a pleasant surprise for him.”

Alistair grinned in spite of the mix of desperation and gratitude she could see in his eyes, then shrugged unconvincingly. “I’m just here for the free cheese and fashion tips.”

“Of course. If you are able to draw yourself away from all of _that_, please come find me at the end of the night. I will have most likely worn out my welcome here by then, but I have an idea I’d like to share with you.”

“An idea, eh? More like a _scheme_? Or a spark of inspiration?”

She shot him a look that might have turned him into a toad were he not immune to such things as both a Warden and a scion of the Calenhad bloodline. 

"Are you still mad about Kirkwall?” he asked meekly. “Look...I was a complete and utter ass, I know! Even Isabela thought so. And I’m sorry.”

"You were. And if I were a weaker person, I might hold such an affront against you…” she sighed. “But as I am _not_, this _scheming_ might actually bring Kieran and I closer to Ferelden.”

Alistair was beaming suddenly, and nearly speechless, until she gave him another harsh look and an eyebrow, and he was able to pull it together. “Intriguing…” he tried to sound more cautiously optimistic, but he was not very good at the Game.

“‘Tis quite. But I really _must_ be going.”

“Sorry...um...I look forward to hearing more…?”

She bowed her head just barely. “I’m glad that you are here, Alistair.” And then she was off, walking with careful poise so as not to attract any undue attention as she made her way down the hall and around the corner toward the stairs. 

…

_My love,_

_You’ll be happy to know that she has convinced him to return to Skyhold with us for the time being. I knew the promise of more time with his son would be too much for him to pass up, especially in his current state. But even_ I _was surprised by how willingly _she_ agreed to it. I wish you could’ve been there to see her in a gown. She looked absolutely stunning! They are both behaving quite amicably...for the most part._

_I have always admired your confidence and your focus on finding a cure, but I am worried, my love, for him and for you and for the other Wardens. Please be careful. We are hearing more strange things about the Order in the West, and I wish I could do more to assist you. I find myself growing quite impatient, but Fiona remains guarded and defensive about her own un-Taintedness, and I do not believe a more aggressive approach will yield any new results with her other than to put the Inquisition’s invaluable alliance with the mages at risk._

_Until we can be together again (and Maker, please let it be sooner rather than later!),_

_Your wife_


	6. Skyhold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair arrives at Skyhold and reconnects with Hawke and Varric and another acquaintance (ok, it's Fiona).

"Hey! I remember you!" Hawke announced from across the Great Hall. 

Alistair and Morrigan and Kieran had been trailing behind the bulk of the group returning from Halamshiral with Leliana, getting caught up on the Inquisition’s progress and discussing their various roles and accommodations now that they were to be staying at Skyhold as allies of the Inquisition.

Varric rolled his eyes. "That's the King of Ferelden, Hawke." 

"Well, when _I_ met him in Lothering, he was just a baby Warden…"

Leliana rushed forward to greet her. “Welcome to Skyhold, Champion!”

“Oh, Sister Leliana…” Hawke blushed. “You knew me long before any of that bullshit.” 

Leliana laughed, grasping her arm tightly with the same grip she’d had back in the days when she used to use it to drag Hawke out of the Lothering Chantry before she could embarrass herself or, more importantly, her mother, with fits of giggles at one of Sister Theohild’s food-related blunders before the old woman was transferred to Denerim. “We were hoping you might turn up a bit sooner, but I’m sure Seeker Cassandra was thrilled to hear of your arrival?” She was eyeing Varric over Hawke's shoulder now.

The dwarf looked away from the Spymaster with a nervous laugh. “She, uhh…” He brought a hand up to rub at the back of his neck. “_Well_…” Leliana had learned in the past few months that this was more than just a tell for when he had a bad hand in Diamondback.

“Yes.” She nodded, pulling away from Hawke. “I can imagine.”

Alistair cleared his throat from behind them. “Varric, good to see you!”

“_Always_ a treat, but I gotta say…” Varric tried to glance around him at Morrigan and Kieran with all the subtlety of a dwarf on his tiptoes, but they had already begun to maneuver around the crowded hall and were heading into Josephine’s offices. “I wasn’t expecting _you_ to want to get involved with the Inquisition, Pup -- er, Your Highness. Thought you hated politics?”

“I still do!” Alistair chuckled obligatorily. “But this has become bigger than that, hasn’t it?”

Cassandra had joined them from the inner courtyard, where, judging by the sweat streaking down her face and her breathlessness, she had been training _quite_ vigorously. “The Champion has offered to assist us in our investigations related to the rumors we’re hearing about the Wardens in the West,” she huffed, refusing to even look at Varric.

"Have you asked _him_ about all the missing Wardens?" Hawke asked, nodding toward Alistair.

"The King of Ferelden's role here is diplomatic,” Leliana interjected, far too politely, while Alistair just stood there, somehow looking simultaneously embarrassed and grateful for her attempt to shield him from this part of the conversation, no doubt an extension of _Solona’s_ weird and sometimes-confusing over-protectiveness, especially when combined with her special brand of adaptive indifference. Thankfully, Leliana had always been much more tactful about it. But he wasn’t _that_ much younger than either of them, and he had never enjoyed being coddled. At least not in public.

The corner of Hawke's mouth twitched up into an impish grin as Alistair stood there struggling with a response of his own. "Hearing any voices?" she asked him.

"What do _you_ know about it?" He sounded every bit like the wounded, defensive child Leliana was trying to protect. 

"There _are_ several Wardens who are rather dear to me, you know,” Hawke reminded him. “One of them even writes to me regularly! And no, it’s not either of the ones who are related to me, though Solona _is_ a bit better than my little brother about that. _Or_ the one I used to hang out with who blew up half of Kirkwall…” She turned toward Cassandra. “Don’t worry, Seeker. _He_ has apparently fucked off into the wilderness to live out his days as a lonely cave hermit.”

Varric coughed, then tried to give her a disapproving glare as Cassandra sneered at them both.

"I'm sorry…” Alistair said, saving them from her smoldering. “But Solona _has_ at least already told you her theories? That it's not a true Archdemon, not the _real_ Calling that all of us are suddenly hearing…?"

Hawke nodded solemnly. “I have seen Corypheus use the Taint to manipulate Wardens before.”

“We appealed to the Hero of Ferelden directly for her aid, but…” Cassandra looked pointedly at Leliana now, who shook her head, issuing a rare warning glare back at her. “She apparently has _other_ priorities.”

Alistair laughed. "She never _did_ think very highly of the Order in the West. Something about them leaving us to end a Blight all by ourselves..." he trailed off. It had been awhile since he’d thought about those earliest days. Grieving for Duncan and Cailan, believing that all hope had been lost at Ostagar. If _Flemeth_, of all people, hadn’t swooped in, and then sent Morrigan with them -- _Maker_, they were all practically children then!

Hawke noticed the distance in his eyes, and she decided to bail him out of this melancholy herself before Leliana could try and rescue him again. "It’s a good thing the Inquisition’s got us to handle it, then, right?!” She turned and smiled as sweetly as she could manage at Cassandra. “I was getting bored of all the peace and quiet of a life on the run, anyways.” 

What Alistair wouldn’t give for an excuse to disappear for a few years...well, the list was certainly short. But then, that was never really an option for him. Just a fantasy. Running off to serve as ‘Ambassador to the Inquisition’ was about as close as he might ever come to evading the responsibilities bestowed upon him by virtue of who his father had been. Other than a man he’d never known, that is. 

“We're to rendezvous with them on our way to the Western Approach. We _were_ investigating the source of the red lyrium together, but then this shit with Corypheus happened, and the Wardens who didn't report to Clarel were all forced to go into hiding.”

"Why are you doing this?" Alistair blurted out.

Hawke’s infamous eyebrow went up. Maybe the King _was_ as daft as his detractors said he was. Hadn’t she already explained her stake in this? "For my brother...for Solona? For..._shit_, I don’t know! Maybe because Corypheus seems to be my unfinished family business?"

_There_ it was. Alistair could finally see the guilt peeking through that cavalier facade she had become so well-known for. Though the physical resemblance was undeniable, it was this insistence on blaming herself for some deep wrongness of the world that reminded him the most of Solona. That haunting, often imperious, always desperate need to try and fix things that were broken long before either of them were ever involved. And his equally infuriating instinct to want to help them. To believe they actually could.

"If that's true, Hawke, then the red lyrium is all mine," Varric muttered, reaching up to pat her arm. He knew the havoc this kind of guilt was capable of wreaking on Hawke’s soul. He’d seen it destroy her more than once.

"Well, I'm not going to tell you _mine_!" Alistair laughed self-consciously. 

"I was _there_, Puppy...I know all about your daddy issues."

He cringed. Did Varric know about Kieran, too? It wouldn't have surprised him, honestly. The dwarf _seemed_ to know everyone and everything. He might have even been able to give Leliana a run for her money, though he also liked to blab and bullshit his way around things far more than she ever did. As he narrowed his eyes on him, trying to ascertain just how much of his personal life Varric was aware of, someone hurrying across the other end of the Great Hall caught his attention.

She was clearly trying to avoid his notice on her way to wherever she was headed with an ancient-looking tome and a cup of tea from the kitchens set on a saucer balanced on top of it. 

“Grand Enchanter Fiona!” he called out to her from across the room. He only felt a little bit bad when she nearly spilled her afternoon tea as she froze, and then tried to casually turn around and face him without looking like she had been hoping he hadn't seen her.

“King Alistair,” she nodded cordially as she approached the group. “I was not aware you would be joining us here at Skyhold.”

“Yes, well..._duty_ once again calls me away from Denerim, it seems.”

“I hope things in Ferelden have begun to return to normal since the Inquisition’s timely intervention?”

“_Hardly_!” He laughed bitterly, and Fiona winced. “Your war has done far more damage than even the Blight could.”

“It was not only _my_ war, I assure you.” There was an edge creeping into her voice that she was trying hard to keep in check.

“Regardless, the rebel mages and rabid Templars who _still_ prowl the Hinterlands have certainly put the Darkspawn horde to shame!”

Fiona’s eyes darted toward Leliana, who was watching them both with cautious curiosity, and then to Hawke, whose interest in the tense interaction between them was considerably _less_ subdued.

“The mages fight for our lives, for our freedom,” she began, spacing her words out carefully, as if she was explaining this to a child. “While the _Templars_ fight for the right to murder, imprison, and abuse us with impunity.”

“Don’t forget the red lyrium. They’ve become quite big fans of that, as well!”

“_Hawke_…” Varric shook his head at her.

But Fiona was looking intently at Alistair now, ignoring the rest of them completely. “If you thought our cause unjust, Your Highness, then why did you grant us asylum in Redcliffe?“

“I never said it was un --” 

_He_ was trying to avoid looking at anyone. He knew Leliana’s position, knew that she had probably had a significant part in convincing the Inquisitor to enlist the mages as allies and in championing their cause, since it had been _her _idea, after what had happened at the White Spire, to offer the rebellion a place of refuge in Ferelden. And he knew Hawke had fought with the mages against Meredith and her Templars in Kirkwall, and had spent the past few years in hiding from the Chantry’s agents. And of course, _he_ had never really been a fan of the Order, either, having left it as soon as he could to join the Wardens.

“Nevermind…” he muttered, realizing he'd somehow started an argument he didn't even want to win. “I’m sure the Queen will have everything in Ferelden back in order soon enough, probably even _better_ than before, with me out of the way,” he sighed.

“Out of the way?” Fiona asked, her tone _almost_ gentle.

“Warden business…” he shrugged, and Hawke beamed at him. _She_ seemed pleased, at least, even if Leliana was glaring at him now in disapproval and Fiona was looking up at him in pity, which was his least favorite thing to be looked at with.

“I see. It is rare that a Warden would be able to sustain a public political life outside of their Warden duties such as you have."

“None of it by choice, I assure you.” Well, now that wasn't _completely_ true...

“I’m sure your father would be proud,” she murmured.

“Knew him, did you?” Alistair peered skeptically at her. It was possible, he supposed, given her age and her brief time with the Wardens, that she had met Maric on one of his adventures.

“Only _of_ him.” Fiona shook her head, quickly dismissing the possibility. “Through a mutual friend. A Warden, in fact. A good man. Lost at Ostagar, I believe.”

“There were many good people lost at Ostagar...”

“At least one.” Fiona smirked. “Duncan was his name. I believe you knew him well?”

“Yes. I did.” Alistair glared at her, not even sure anymore why he felt so much animosity toward the woman.

She reminded him of Morrigan in some ways -- namely, the way she carried herself with an air of removed smugness, like she knew something he didn’t. Like she was holding back knowledge and opinions that he ‘just wouldn’t understand.’ It was worse than The Game, because she wasn’t playing by anyone’s rules but her own. 

But whereas he’d learned how to see through Morrigan’s mask of superiority, he couldn’t seem to find any underlying warmth or vulnerability in Fiona’s face. Only stiffness and unease, like speaking to him was somehow physically uncomfortable as she worked hard to hide her well-guarded opinions and judgments about him, about his life, the privileges afforded to him because of his noble birth, however cursed _he_ felt it was, and his effectiveness as King. Unlike his usual critics, it felt _personal_ with her...as _if_ she could possibly know a single thing about him!

“Grand-Enchanter, if you have a chance, I’d like to speak with you about an...unrelated matter,” Leliana insisted, interrupting the tense silence that had settled between them. 

“Of course,” Fiona nodded back at Leliana.

“But now I must go and meet with the other advisors and the Inquisitor to discuss this new information and the assistance the Champion -- I’m sorry, _Messere Hawke_ \-- has offered us.” She ducked her head, and did a little curtsy, an old habit from her flirtatious bard days that she had never quite gotten rid of. Hawke tried not to blush again, while Varric rolled his eyes at both of them.

“And now I’m afraid that _I_ also have an appointment that I am slightly more than fashionably late for...” Fiona held up her book with the tea still balanced precariously on top of it as proof that she had somewhere else to be.

“Yes...er, I suppose I do, too.” Alistair stammered. He turned toward Hawke. “I mean, if I’m to accompany you to the Western Approach, there are a few things I should probably attend to before we leave.”

“Yeah. Come on,” Varric grabbed his elbow and knocked his hip against Hawke’s thigh, nodding toward the exit. “We have a very important _appointment_ in the Herald’s Rest...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm futzing around with canon (it's gonna get even more egregious, I promise). Nobody has time to go to Crestwood right now, so they're just gonna go pick up Hawke's "warden contact" on their way to the Western Approach instead. This isn't a solavellan fic, so Crestwood Shmestwood, amirite?! (Sorry, haunted village and those whose souls will never be avenged, but this story isn't really about you, either...)
> 
> The next chapter will probably be quite short (gah, remember when I thought these chapters would all be like 1k words or fewer? no? well, that WAS my intention), and will be posted hopefully much sooner than this one. I basically chopped this in half because when I realized Fiona would be here, I got really excited about the interactions between these two. But Morrigan and Kieran will be in the next chapter, I promise.


	7. The Herald's Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric and Hawke try to pry into Alistair's private life over midday drinks, with mixed success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This really should've been part of the last chapter, but it was getting so long! Then I probably should've cut it, but I can't help how much I love these two assholes. I'm sorry. Nothing really important happens here. Alistair just gets a little drunk before having to go say goodbye to Morrigan and Kieran. Again.

“So tell me…" Varric slid another mug of ale to Alistair while Hawke sipped at her whiskey. "What _really_ brings you to Skyhold?”

"Well, as I'm sure you’re aware, there's been a war or two going on...and then all this Elder One nonsense...plus, the ‘Calling’…?" He tapped his temple to emphasize the last point.

"Nah, Puppy…not buyin' it. You know it’s not the real thing, just like Hawke’s cousin and any of the other Wardens with any sense."

Hawke snorted into her glass. “I mean...is _Carver_ included in that?”

“Hush, you! Your brother had enough sense to get as far away from this shit as he could down in Kal’Hirol, didn’t he?”

“And here _I_ thought he just wanted to see _me_!”

“You’ve been…” Alistair had gulped down his mouthful of ale too fast and he struggled to speak as the bubbles fought and burned against the muscles in his esophagus. “...hiding in the Deep Roads?” he managed to croak.

“Not _exactly_. Just the occasional visit. Between hunting slavers and playing pirates. But Solona’s little ‘rebel’ Warden contingent has certainly been growing since the dwarves gave her her very own Blighted playground to mess around in.”

Alistair shuddered at the reminder about Solona’s ‘research.’ He’d been to visit Vigil’s Keep a handful of times on official _and_ unofficial business, but had yet to take her up on the offer of a tour of her underground operations, which, as he understood it from both Morrigan and Leliana, were far more extensive and expansive than what she had left in place above the surface -- a bare bones fortification to provide the people of Amaranthine some peace of mind in case of another Darkspawn uprising. She had assured him, with her typical nonchalance when it came to such matters, that she had all of that completely under control through other means -- some kind of agreement between her and the Architect that he didn't dare ask her to elaborate on.

Varric cleared his throat and glared at Hawke, who had apparently missed the fact that they were here to carefully pry into _Alistair’s_ personal life..._not_ for her to brag about all of the adventures _she_ had been having as a so-called fugitive.

He turned back to Alistair. "I mean, I know all those other things probably _do_ matter to you. But I seem to recall you swearing that you were never leaving Ferelden again after our little trip up north, and I'd have bet good money on you keeping that promise. Something or some_one_ else, more personal than any of that, brought you out here."

Hawke smirked. "Does she happen to have red hair? Pretends to be all flirty and cute, but would totally stab you in the back without a moment’s hesitation? Cuz I gotta say, if Varric had told me Sister Leliana was here, _I’d_ have turned up months ago!”

“Why does everyone always assume Leliana and I…” Alistair huffed. “I mean, you _know_ she’s married to your cousin, right?!”

“So?”

“So not Sister Nightingale, then...hmm…” Varric took a swig of his ale, debating whether or not to actually voice _his_ suspicion that it was the Arcane Advisor from Orlais that he’d arrived with. But she bore an unnerving resemblance to another Witch of the Wilds whom they’d met (and slain) in Antiva. 

“Got a thing for the Seeker?” he asked instead, opting for absurdity in hopes of teasing the truth more gradually out of him.

Hawke laughed. “Stop projecting on the man, Varric! He has a wife. And _apparently_, that’s important!”

It was Alistair’s turn to snort into his drink.

“Oh, it’s like that, then, is it?” Hawke’s eyebrow went up. “But Cassandra isn’t _your_ type. Too dutiful. Too earnest. You two would bore the shit out of each other.” 

She leaned an elbow on the bar directly in front of him and peered more closely into his face. He felt those piercing turquoise eyes of hers trying to poke clumsily around in his soul, like a bear at an Orlesian dinner party. He knew he didn’t stand a chance in a staring contest with the Champion of Kirkwall, so he just tried to blink innocently back at her. He had always assumed Solona’s social invasiveness had come from spending so much of her life in the Circle, but he could see now that this, too, seemed to run in the family.

“You need someone to laugh _at _you, not with you...to pick up on that slightly twisted, self-deprecating humor of yours and just run with it. Someone too _nice_, and you’d just fall apart.”

“_Hawke_…” Varric pleaded with her. She was too close for even _his_ comfort now, and he couldn’t imagine what level of mortification the private, slightly bashful King of Ferelden was experiencing at her uninvited analysis.

“Maker! _Isabela_ would be perfect for you!” she declared triumphantly.

Alistair sputtered with laughter this time, ale very nearly shooting out of his nose right into Hawke’s face, not that it wouldn’t have been well-deserved. “Isabela and I _have_ spent a bit of time together, you know?” 

Hawke’s eyes lit up at that. “_And_…?”

“And you couldn’t be more wrong.” He glanced a bit more sheepishly between the two of them, then. He knew that they were two of her best friends, and he didn’t wish to imply that he bore her any ill will. “I certainly _do_ respect her...as a pirate, as a duelist...and a friend, of course. But she and I -- ”

“I suppose, if anything ever _had_ happened between the two of you, she would have mentioned it.”

Alistair hid his face behind his next gulp of ale. He knew his own Wicked Grace face was non-existent, and apparently, Isabela was more discreet than he (or Hawke) had realized. 

“So who is it, then? Who do you have _here_ that would draw you away from Denerim?”

Varric shook his head at her. “You’re really bad at this, you know? It’s a good thing you had me and my contacts all those years in Kirkwall to get information for you.”

“Fat lot of good it did me in the end! Couldn’t even warn me about…” She trailed off and stared back down into her whiskey with a sigh.

Varric leaned in close, whispering across the top of Alistair’s mug to her. “Have you heard from him?”

“Sol tracked him down west of Kirkwall and asked him to join her in the Deep Roads,” Hawke muttered. “But he refused. Told her he was too dangerous." She rolled her eyes. "Blah blah blah...I’ll break your heart...yadda yadda yadda.”

“Are you speaking of Anders?”

“Yeah, why?" Hawke asked. "Didn’t realize you two had met as well…?”

“Our, uhhh...paths have crossed.” And by that, he meant that they’d exchanged defensive glances after Morrigan had shooed the mage out of the little dungeon cell where Kieran had been born, and he’d done all he could as King and as a favor to Solona to make it more difficult for the Templars to track him down to Kirkwall when he fled the Wardens.

“Right. Yeah. So you knew him before...the, uhh…”

“Before…?”

“Well, some people might call him an Abomination, but we’ve all seen those. And he ain’t that. He has a spirit of Justice inside of him. Makes him damn near invincible when he lets him take over, and an amazing healer.”

“Huh.” Alistair took a slower, more deliberate sip of his ale. “Interesting.” Of _course_ Solona would have wanted to _re_-recruit him. Especially after Wynne’s death. She had some crazy ideas about spirit possession and the role it might be able to play in the ‘Cure.’

“Yeah, though he thinks _he_’s gone and corrupted _it_ into Vengeance or something. We tried to explain to him that it didn’t work like that, but...”

“None of us really know what we’re talking about, either,” Varric finished that thought for her, reaching across the bar and squeezing her elbow, before turning his attention back on Alistair. “You’re not gonna tell us why you’re here, are you?”

“It's nothing personal...just...well, there are other people to consider.”

"_People_? As in, more than one? That means...there’s a kid, isn’t there?”

Alistair’s face, full of stupefied dismay, gave away the answer before he could think to deny it or to deflect with a cough or another gulp of his ale.

“Seriously? That’s...well, shit, I couldn’t even write it better than that -- bastard son of a King inherits the throne, has a secret kid of his own…”

“Maker’s breath...please don’t do this,” Alistair whispered into his ale before raising it up to his lips and draining the remnants.

Varric patted his shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with us.”

“Speak for yourself, I fully intend to blackmail the Fereldan throne with this juicy gossip…” Hawke tittered.

Alistair slammed the mug down and glared at her. “I _know_ you are joking, but this is not a matter that_ I _take lightly,” he snarled. “Nor would the Queen or the mother of my son appreciate your sense of humor. And I promise you that _she_ is far more formidable than I am.”

“Hey, okay! Fine!” Hawke put her hands up in surrender, eyeing Varric as he shook his head at her in disapproval. “Sheesh…everything here is so _serious_...”

“Champion...King Alistair!” Cassandra called to them from the entryway of the tavern before stomping over in her own stiff, but oddly graceful way, refusing to even look at Varric, let alone acknowledge him by name.

She informed them that the Inquisitor and her advisors had decided, given the revelations about Corypheus’ unique ability to manipulate the Calling, and the rumors about the Wardens in the West, that they were to depart for the Western Approach as soon as travel preparations could be made. 

As she left, just as abruptly as she’d come in, Varric couldn’t help but notice the sudden look of panic on Alistair’s face, like he’d just seen a ghost.

“What is it, Puppy?”

“I...there’s someone I need to -- ” He stood up, absently reaching into his pockets for some coin to leave the bartender. “I should go.”

“It’s on us, Your Highness.” Varric waved him off. “Sorry for the _interrogation_.” He glared at Hawke, who just shrugged, trying not to look guilty.

Alistair nodded vacantly at them. “Thank you.” And then he strode hastily out of the Herald’s Rest.

“Well, _he’s_ precious…” Hawke drawled, draining the last of her glass.

“You know how much my heart breaks for the big, funny, sad ones…”

“Yeah. Gross.” Hawke sneered. “Another round? I want to be good and drunk before we leave.”

“‘Sure, but this one’s on you.”

“What? Why?!”

“For scaring away the King of Ferelden. That kid’s got some stories...”

“And what? Am I boring to you now?”

“I already know all _your _stories..._I_ wrote them!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I lied and said there'd be more Morrigan and Kieran in this chapter, but NEXT CHAPTER, I promise! There may EVEN be a *gasp!* arm touch! <3


	8. Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair breaks the news of his departure from Skyhold to Morrigan. He's a little drunk, thanks to Hawke and Varric.

Alistair went searching for Morrigan and Kieran, feeling only_ slightly_ tipsy. It had been awhile since he’d had genuine Dwarven ale, which Varric must’ve bribed the bartender to serve them from his special reserves instead of the watered-down stuff that most reasonable people drank above the surface. But he couldn’t say he regretted downing that last mug that had been pushed into his hands. Breaking the news of his sudden unexpected departure to Morrigan would be difficult as it was, and probably even more so sober.

“Kieran!” He found the boy in the garden, inspecting a stalk of rare felandaris, and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him into a hug.

“You smell like alcohol!" Kieran beamed up at him. "Are you drunk?”

“No...” Alistair squeezed him tighter. “Ok, maybe just a little...but how do you even know what that is?”

“Mother explained it to me. She said weak men turn to drink when they don’t know how to express their feelings.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that!” Alistair chuckled sadly into the top of his head. _Maker_, he was getting so tall! But when he embraced him like this, it was hard not to imagine the perfect little baby he'd first met and fallen in love with in his big clumsy arms under Vigil's Keep a decade ago.

Alistair took a deep breath, then finally released him, ruffling his dark, carefully-combed hair into a disheveled mess. Orlais had started wearing off on him a little too much for Alistair’s liking. It was a good thing they'd left before he started wearing a mask everywhere. “Do you know where she is?”

Kieran pushed his hair back out of his eyes with a little smirk and nodded toward the other side of the garden where Morrigan was standing with her back to them, arms crossed, one hip cocked indignantly to the side. She seemed to be barking orders at a group of Inquisition soldiers who were trying to maneuver her mirror into a storage room which she'd commandeered for her own private use.

Alistair noted with some amusement how much she’d managed to collect over the years, in spite of her and Kieran’s constant travelling. No doubt, some of her belongings were, in fact, quite powerful and mysterious arcane objects, but he knew she had just as much of a penchant for picking up and hiding away anything she found particularly pretty or shiny, as well.

“Do at least make an _attempt _to be careful,” she advised them with snide disapproval. “It is not as if that is worth more than all of your lives combined…”

Alistair tried to approach cautiously so as not to interrupt and risk all that contempt being redirected unto him, even if he did feel for the soldiers, having been subject to Morrigan’s _exacting_ specifications on more than one occasion. But he was perhaps a little drunker than he realized, stomping clumsily toward her through a large patch of spindleweed and cursing as the thorns pricked through his trousers and left burrs stuck to him from the knees on down.

“Do you suppose any of them have the faintest idea what it is that they are _man_handling?” she huffed at him without turning around.

“Er...no?" He grunted, trying to brush the sticky burrs from his legs and getting them stuck to his gloves instead. "They're just soldiers...not ‘masters of the arcane’...”

“Well, then.” She finally turned to face him, her consternation softening ever-so-slightly as she took in the sight of him struggling and decided to take his assertion as a compliment within the context of his increasingly-obvious inebriated state. “I suppose I shall be merciful and refrain from turning them _all_ into newts.”

“Not toads?” he hiccupped.

“I happen to _like_ toads…” She smiled.

“Yeah…” For a moment, all he could do was stare at her, like a dope, wondering why she would choose _now_ to be in such a good mood, making everything he had come to tell her so much more difficult. “That’d probably be good, considering we only just got here.” He looked away from her now, away from her teasing grin, chuckling nervously down at the ground. “Speaking of which…”

She cocked her head curiously at his sudden sheepishness. Drunk or not, it wasn’t like him to give up so easily on some opportunity to continue their usual repartee. “What is it?”

“I’ve just been speaking with the Champion of Kirkwall.”

“Speaking or _drinking_?”

“Well, we did both, if you _must_ know.” He looked back up at her, failing to look as defiant as he hoped he might, mostly just grimacing instead as he tried to swallow down some acid that had crept up his throat. “Do you remember meeting her in Lothering? During the Blight?”

“Yes. I do believe she tried to convince Solona to abandon her Warden obligations to flee with a family she’d never known," Morrigan mused. “An interesting woman…”

“Well, it turns out she is somehow involved in...well, pretty much all of this.”

“I am hardly surprised. These things _do_ seem to run in families, do they not?”

His family. Her family. And the Amell-Hawke family, apparently. It _was_ strange, wasn’t it? Like someone was pulling the strings, tangling them all together, doomed to repeat the same cycles, the same mistakes of their parents and their parents’ parents, over and over and over. 

He wanted better for Kieran. Better than the ghosts of fate constantly nagging and pursuing and haunting him, whatever the terms of his conception might have been. Kieran hadn’t had a choice in the matter, no say in the bargain they’d made. He opened his mouth to say so in a burst of parental angst, but he suddenly felt nauseous.

Morrigan watched him snap his mouth shut abruptly before he could respond, and he shook his head, looking back down at the ground again. Normally, she would have found his drunken inarticulateness pathetic and she would have told him so, but there was clearly something bothering him. Perhaps he’d been drinking to drown out the voices in his head. She could forgive that, she supposed. She had been intentionally avoiding discussing the false Calling, hoping Kieran might serve as a distraction over the past few days of travel, which he had seemed eager to accept, always grateful for time with his son. She wondered now if they ought to have been discussing it more. Perhaps she could help him somehow…? Solona’s research in the Deep Roads had been largely fruitless thus far, but perhaps she _could_ focus her efforts less on the Eluvians and the ancient elves, and more on the Taint...the two of their efforts combined could certainly yield faster results for Alistair and Solona and the other Wardens, as well, though Morrigan didn’t care much for the Order.

"You were saying...about the Champion? Does she know something about the Elder One or this false Calling?”

He nodded. “She apparently thought she and her friends had already dealt with him. But now thinks they may actually be responsible for unwittingly freeing him from an ancient prison the Wardens had made for him.”

“Of course.”

“And...well...she feels it is her responsibility to investigate these rumors about the Wardens in the West, who she believes are being manipulated by him or one of his followers.”

“And what does that have to do with _you_?”

“Morrigan…” he swallowed.

Morrigan’s eyes narrowed on him suddenly, and the realization of what he was trying to tell her felt like a shock of ice water in her veins. She ought to have been prepared for something like this, but he had seemed so happy. Kieran had seemed so happy. And _she _had been so happy to see them together. To see him.

Flemeth’s voice threatened to break through her consciousness like it always did in moments of weakness like this, but she fought it back, focusing her disappointment on him instead. “So you are leaving, then? With the Champion…?"

*Yes." He nodded regrettably. "As soon as fresh horses and supplies have been arranged."

"I see." She didn’t bother to hide the dejected look on her face. He had expected her to go all frigid and say something cold or biting about how she knew he’d abandon his son at the first opportunity, but she didn’t. She just looked at him with a resigned sadness in her eyes, and he thought _now_ would be a terrible time to wonder about the implications of _that_.

"I figured you were probably getting sick of me after the past week…" he chuckled halfheartedly, trying to break the tension. Trying to change the expression on her face to something else, _anything _else.

But she wasn't laughing or sneering at him like he half-hoped she might. Instead, disappointment seemed to have given way to desperation as she ignored his invitation to be cruel in defensiveness, and chose to consider the severity of the perils he was going to face. It wasn’t as if he were simply returning to Denerim or sailing off on some other diplomatic endeavor or adventure. "You were meant to be acting as an Ambassador to the Inquisition. _Not_ as a Warden."

"But I _am_ still a Warden. And this affects all of us.”

"Are there no other Wardens in the Inquisition who can accompany the Champion?”

“I don’t think so...well, Grand Enchanter Fiona _used to be_ a Warden, I guess, but…” he hiccuped again.

“And has _she_ been at all affected by this?"

"It didn’t really come up in our brief..._conversation_,” he sighed. “But I do know that she was expelled from the Order, under mysterious circumstances, years ago. Something about how she became _immune_...to the Taint? I don’t know anything more specific...”

"Does Solona know about this?”

“I assume so…but that doesn’t -- ”

“So why can’t _Fiona_ go with the Champion? If she’s immune...then surely -- ”

“Because…” Alistair took a deep breath, and Morrigan waited for him to sort out his drunken rebuttal. “I feel _compelled_...to go. Not _just_ because of the Calling. But because my duty is to the Order. ‘In Peace, Vigilance,’ and all that…” he mumbled.

“What about your other duties? To your _kingdom_ and to…” She swallowed, trying to curb the vitriol creeping into her voice. ”To your Queen, and to…”

"I know…" This was hardly what he'd been thinking of when he'd happily agreed to join them at Skyhold and the look on her face now, the hurt and the desperation he saw in her eyes, told him she felt similarly. The possibility that they might never have another chance to spend time like this together had occurred to him, as well.

But he couldn't quite bring himself to be the first to say so. And it wouldn’t do to go declaring any feelings about things in his current state. Not when he was about to leave.

"Will you and Kieran be staying here for awhile?” He fought against the hesitation in his voice. Making plans for the future seemed somewhat foolhardy given their current circumstances, but it was all he really could think to discuss, and he wasn’t ready yet to actually say goodbye.

"Not awaiting _your return_,” she admonished him in a more familiar tone, unable to resist, apparently. At least she could pretend his return was an assurance. "But yes. Working with the Inquisition will give me access to a great many things I have been eager to explore for some time now.”

And some new things, as well -- the Grand-Enchanter’s ‘un-Taintedness,’ to start.

"Then I shall endeavor to deal quickly with this matter and return to this place...er, here, I mean. To Skyhold. To you and Kieran..." And _then_, perhaps, without a song in his head calling him prematurely toward his doomed fate in the Deep Roads, he might be able to figure out what they were. What they _could_ be. A family, perhaps? If he had enough time left for such a thing. If he could figure things out with Anora. If Morrigan even wanted such a thing. What was he even thinking? She had never wanted that. And she was looking at him, somewhat puzzled. Had he been speaking out loud?

"Why are you speaking in this manner?"

"It -- I was trying to sound like...oh, _nevermind_!" he grumbled, his cheeks turning even redder than they already were from the ale. 

"Alistair…" She reached a tentative hand out to touch his arm, to keep him from turning away from her in embarrassment. "I know things seem hopeless and grim. As they so often do…”

He allowed himself a genuine chuckle at that, but her eyes remained fixed on him, full of a startlingly intense sincerity.

“But if anything were to happen to you, Kieran would be devastated. And _I_…"

He glanced down as her fingers tensed, slowly curling around his forearm. Had she _ever_ touched him like this, with such concentrated gentleness? The only other times he could think of her initiating any sort of physical contact were when circumstances required it -- for healing or, well...for some _other_ life-saving ritual he had tried, and often failed, not to think about out of respect for her. She had never really allowed much warmth or softness to linger between them any longer than was necessary.

But now, with her hand on his arm and her eyes boring into him and everything else about her seeming to want to hold onto him and keep him there, against all her own personal convictions, he assumed...well, what was he supposed to make of this _now_, as he prepared to head off on some mysterious, most likely ill-fated mission?

"Just try to be careful,” she sighed. “Please?"

He looked helplessly at her as she searched him for some sort of reassurance. Morrigan wasn’t one to entertain any false hope, and he knew she wouldn’t appreciate him making promises he couldn’t keep, but he knew he ought to say _something_. "I will do my best not to die.”

Her eyes and everything else seemed to soften a little more as she nodded back at him. 

“Good. Yes, that.” 

She pulled her hand away, patting his arm awkwardly as if she had just realized she’d been holding onto him. If she had been almost anyone else, he might’ve pulled her into a hug, but even drunk and sad and terrified, he knew better than to assume this would be a welcome gesture. 

And beyond that, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to let go.

“Now, you must tell Kieran.”

Alistair felt like someone had just punched him in the chest. _Hard_. He deserved it, he supposed.

“I...can’t!” he gasped. “Morrigan, please…!” And there was the nausea again. Except this time it came with memories of Maric. Their last conversation. Things he'd wanted to say, and hear, and feel for the father he'd never really known because, he, too, had been forced to choose certain duties over a relationship with his son.

“He needs to hear it from you. Surely _you_, of all people, can understand this?”

“But I…what if he…? What if _I_?!” He swallowed down what he could of this sudden panic and bile and tried to breathe.

“Hush…” She reached for his hand, but hesitated to grab it. “If you’ve already made up your mind to go be a hero, you might as well start now, with your son, who already considers you one.”

There was no point in arguing. He knew that she was right. He took a deep breath, reaching for her hand that hovered toward him, and pulled it down to his side. When she squeezed back, he found the courage to head back across the courtyard toward their son. To say goodbye.


	9. Too Many Wardens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair accompanies Hawke, Varric, Blackwall, and the Inquisitor to meet up with Hawke's Warden contact(s) in the Western Approach.

“So...Hawke.” Alistair strode up beside her as she scouted the horizon for something -- a marker or landmark, no doubt. “This Warden friend of yours...do they have a name?” 

They had been on horseback for most of the journey from Skyhold westward through Orlais while there were still well-maintained roads to ride on, and daytime conversation had been sparse due to the pace of their travel, except when they made camp at night, and then Varric and Hawke were often the center of attention as they told ridiculous tales of their adventures in Kirkwall. But as the green, fertile fields of the Orlesian heartlands abruptly gave way to the permanently-Blighted wastelands of the Approach, they’d been forced to travel more by foot over less predictable windswept terrain as they sought out the old smuggler’s hideout where they were to rendezvous with Hawke’s contact.

“Oh!” She seemed a bit caught off-guard by his looming presence. “Well, I’ve been told to keep things a bit hush-hush, you know…until we get there.”

Alistair looked at the sandy hills all around them. They had been remarkably bereft of enemies, most likely cleared out by the Wardens who had preceded them, following Clarel’s call to Adamant, and not even the formidable wildlife seemed to be in the mood to confront them. Just the wind, the sand, and an ominous emptiness, as if the entire region was resting up for some massive battle in the days to come. “I don’t see anyone here who might go running to tattle to Warden-Commander Clarel.”

“Ah.” She glanced over at Blackwall for some reason, who was still out of earshot, hanging back from the group, looking like he might need to take a piss or something, and whispered conspiratorially, “And I suppose you _are_ a Warden, so…”

“Yes.”

“And I also know a little secret about _you_…” She waggled her eyebrows at him.

Alistair rolled his eyes and sighed. “Yeesss…that.”

“Ok, well…” She looked back at Varric, who was helping the Inquisitor up over the edge of the cliff, and whispered, “Stroud. Jean-Marc Stroud. Do you know him?”

"Yes. Well, sort of. He took over for Sol at Vigil’s Keep. So we’ve met, but -- ”

“Yeah! He saved my brother, too! It’s a funny story…” Hawke laughed uncomfortably. “Well, not _that_ funny, actually…”

It was apparently enough to get Varric’s attention. That, or he had given up on the Inquisitor, but either way, he was suddenly there at her side. “We probably don’t need to relive _that_. Not right now, anyway.”

“Yeah. Of course.” She gave him a relieved smile. “You’re right.”

“Stroud’s a bit more by-the-book than your cousin, if I recall.” Alistair continued after an awkward pause. “I’m honestly surprised he didn't immediately report to Clarel out West."

"Well, when Carv started talking about hearing things, _I_ made sure that didn’t happen. We were already working with him and another Warden, trying to investigate some loose ends with the red lyrium we found a decade ago.”

Varric cleared his throat. “Probably don’t need to go too much into _that_, either, Hawke…”

“Well, _anyway_, I made him promise he’d stay down there with Sol and _her _Wardens…far enough away from _whatever_ was going on that I hoped they’d be able to stay out of it.” 

She looked to Varric now, seeking approval, or out of annoyance, it was hard to tell, as the dwarf grimaced apologetically back at her.

“She wrote to me when it began,” Alistair said, “Told me to ignore it, and to tell the Order she had formally discharged me after the Blight.”

“Is that a thing?”

“Not really at all…” he laughed, shaking his head. “But when has that ever stopped her?”

“Stroud and the Traitor were the only ones who stayed topside to help us continue our work, but they were pretty suspicious about the whole thing, too. Still had to go into hiding anyway when Clarel declared anyone who refused her orders to report in the West as, well, _traitors_.” She laughed. “Ha! Funny, right? The Traitor being declared a traitor…_again_! Poor bastard...”

"The _Traitor_?" Alistair had never heard of one of Solona’s little group of rebel Wardens being referred to as such, and it seemed an odd nickname. It could’ve easily been another transfer from Orlais or the Free Marches who had come along after Stroud took over in the years following the Blight. Probably earned from some past misdeeds prior to being conscripted. The Order _was_ certainly full of people for whom the moniker could easily apply.

"Yeah...err..._shit._” Her eyes darted back to Varric, who simply shrugged as if to say ‘I told you so…’ “I just realized this is going to be a real awkward reunion."

"Might as well tell him, Hawke,” Varric urged. “He’ll find out soon enough...that is, if we ever manage to find them.”

“_Them_?”

“Well, they usually come as sort of a package deal…it’s sort of cute how they bonded over their hatred of Orlais. You might be able to find some common ground on that, too...”

_No._ She couldn’t possibly be referring to who he thought she might be. Because that would be _proof_ that the Maker was real and, as he had suspected now for some time, had a twisted, awful, sadistic sense of humor.

"Who?" Alistair demanded.

"Uh...you _might_ remember him…" Hawke tittered nervously. “The, uh, _Hero_ of...River Dane?”

Alistair froze. _Nope_. It couldn’t be. Had to be some other asshole who’d made a name for themself at the River Dane. In a _different_ war with Orlais. There was no way it could be the man who’d spent most of his life earning the trust and loyalty of his father and brother and the Fereldan army and its people only to turn his back on them all when they needed him the most. Solona had exiled him to Orlais. She’d thought it fitting, and hilarious, of course, in her own perverse way. Much like the Maker that Alistair was starting to wholly believe in again. It had been difficult for him to forgive her for sparing the old man back then, and still, if he was being honest. But even so, Loghain should’ve been long gone by now, chasing his Calling deep below the surface, devoured slowly, tortuously by the Darkspawn he’d scoffed at during the Fifth Blight.

"Hey.” Hawke waved a hand in front of him. “Uh...Your Highness?"

He sucked in a rattling breath. Then another less raspy one as he narrowed his eyes on her. "How could you have failed to mention this until now?" he seethed.

She shrugged. "Would you have come with us if I did?” 

Varric sighed, shaking his head behind them.

"Does _he_ know I'm with you? With the Inquisition?"

"I didn't really have a chance to tell _him,_ either…" Hawke motioned to their surroundings. “Been doing a bit of travelling.”

"This is...this is...all of this...is just...” Alistair had begun to pace along the cliff’s edge. “I should’ve stayed at Skyhold. I should’ve just...stayed in _Denerim_! I don’t _need_ to be a part of your mess! _You_...and your cousin...and the entire Order...why does it feel like I am always just a pawn in these things?!” He looked angrily to Varric now for an explanation.

“You _chose_ to come, Puppy, if I recall…nobody forced you.”

Hawke nodded. “Yeah, and it’s been what? Ten years since he tried to kill you and steal the throne? And how many near world-ending events? We’ve all..._grown_ so much!” Hawke offered shakily. “I mean, technically, I am a deserter from _his_ army, and _he’s_ never really held a grudge.”

“And he’s a Warden now. No titles. No higher ambition, _really_…totally different guy.”

“_Nothing_ could ever make up for what he did,” Alistair growled through gritted teeth, his fists balled up at his sides as he turned away from them.

“You’re right. Of course. You’re right.” Hawke nodded. “But he and Stroud have been a big help to us so far.”

“I...I need some time. To just…” Before he could finish the thought, Alistair was stomping off with a frustrated huff, past Blackwall, and back over the edge of the cliff where the Inquisitor was still struggling to get up the old sand-blasted ladder as it hung on thinning rope, swinging back and forth in the breeze. With a grunt, he hoisted her up the rest of the way over the ridge and then slid down past her to the chasm below, foregoing the ladder for a gravelly path sloping back toward the east

Varric patted Hawke’s arm as she stood there, staring after him with an empty expression. “He’ll be fine. I’ve seen him bounce back from worse. He _earned_ his nickname.”

She turned to him, the guilt and remorse that had been mostly absent from her face up til now becoming suddenly obvious as her eyes met Varric’s. “I didn’t even _think_ about it until he asked!”

“You usually don’t.” He chuckled, tugging on her arm. “Might wanna check in with our _other_ Warden, Blackwall, over there, too...make sure _he_ doesn’t have any old axes to grind.”

“He doesn’t seem to know anything about any of this.”

“Yeah. Seems weird, right?”

“Yeah…”

Varric tapped his temple, and Hawke did the same with a conspiratorial smirk.

“I’m on it.” She nodded.

“Oh, I _know_! That’s what I’m afraid of.”

…

Hawke spent the rest of the afternoon leading them up and down more disintegrating ladders and balancing on precarious platforms, built and un-maintained on purpose by various groups of smugglers and criminals over the years, the only people who dared spend much time here ever since the Wardens had retreated from their fortress on the Abyssal Rift to Montsimmard. As the sun was beginning to set, Alistair reappeared below.

“Oy!” he shouted up at them. “Think I might have found something…”

Hawke zipped down the ladder, landing almost on top of him as he squinted up past her into the setting sun, and the others followed.

“This way…” he groaned, trying to ignore the way she beamed up at him.

He led them to a small cave entrance, boarded up and hidden behind a rocky outcropping. Hawke kicked a pile of sand away from the base of the entrance, exposing a tiny scribble on one of the boards that could only be described as a hastily-drawn mustache.

“This is it!” she cried out victoriously. She spun around and wrapped her arms around Alistair who reluctantly hugged her back.

“Great…”

“How long do you think they’ve been in there?” Varric asked as he caught up, sounding a bit worried and more than a little winded.

“Many of these caves are full of supply caches and various provisions,” Blackwall informed them. 

Hawke fought the urge to ask him how he would know such a thing, and tried to kick in the boards.

“Allow me, Champion,” he offered, swinging his shield around in front of him as he backed away, preparing for a charge.

“Bash away!”

The wooden planks gave way easily to his bulk in one smashing go of it, and then he and Alistair cleared away the remaining splintered boards with their swords.

“This is the most action my sword has seen in awhile,” Alistair joked.

Varric chuckled a bit too knowingly at that.

“Wait, no! That’s not -- ” Alistair’s smile vanished immediately upon the realization of what he’d just said and how the dwarf was choosing to take it -- accurate or not, it wasn’t something he had meant to announce so gleefully.

Varric patted him reassuringly on the arm. “Ready to see your father-in-law, Puppy?”

“No. Not at all. Never again.”

“Well, it’s too late for that. Come on.”

The cave, it turned out, was actually the entrance to an entire system of caves, all of which seemed to have been used by a number of different groups over the years if the various symbols and coded messages scrawled over every surface and competing with one another were any indication. Blackwall had been right, and there was a myriad of various supplies and loot, even furniture, scattered about, as if people sometimes spent time living here, hard as it was to believe after spending three days without seeing another soul outside of their little search party. Hawke knelt down, locating another scribbled mustache, and led the way down one of the tunnels.

As they traveled, wary of the amount of noise their footsteps made grinding sand against stone, they could make out light from a fire or a torch bouncing around, emanating from the entrance to a large open cavern up ahead.

“Wait here,” Hawke whispered, before sneaking around a stack of empty crates and blinking out of sight before their very eyes.

“I hate when they do that,” Blackwall muttered. “They say it’s not magic, but…” he shook his head. “Makes no sense.”

“Certainly comes in handy, though…” Varric mused.

A few seconds of silence stretched into a minute and then some, as they all stood holding their breath. Then they heard a disgruntled, decidedly Fereldan “What the fuck was that?!” followed by the sound of a sword being unsheathed. Alistair gripped his own sword and leaned forward, ready to charge in after Hawke, but Varric held his arm out in front of him as a second voice, this one decidedly Orlesian, cried out a muffled “Champion! Finally!” and Hawke’s clear, high-pitched squeal of “Uncles!” reverberated through the caves.

Varric nodded to the Inquisitor to follow her then, while the others hung back.

“Look! I brought the Inquisitor!” Hawke announced proudly.

“Inquisitor...my name is Stroud, and I am at your service,” the Orlesian voice introduced itself.

“Loghain Mac Tir...” The Fereldan voice sounded less threatening now, and the sword it had unsheathed seemed to be sliding back into its scabbard. “...and I believe we have a common cause.”

“There are a few others, too…” Hawke said, with some hesitation, and Varric proceeded into the cavern, waving for Blackwall and Alistair to follow. 

“Varric, whom you already know, and…”

“What’s _he_ doing here?!” Loghain hissed.

"My duty as a Warden…" Alistair muttered.

“Aren’t you supposed to be playing at King in Denerim while my daughter runs things?"

“Your _daughter_ has renounced you and all of your crimes against Ferelden. If Solona hadn’t conscripted you...” he growled.

“Oh, yes, of course. I am forever grateful to the woman who forced me into a life of sacrifice and doom in the Deep Roads when I was already old enough to retire!” he cackled bitterly, just like an old hag, Alistair thought. “_And_ to the boy who threw a hissyfit about not being allowed to chop my head off with his playsword.”

Alistair took two big, angry steps toward him and stopped just short of pressing his puffed up chest against Loghain’s long, jutting chin. The decade that had passed between the two had only exacerbated their physical differences. Loghain had gotten thinner, more wiry. Whether this was due to the change in his lifestyle or some decline in his health, Alistair didn’t really care. His basic Warden armor also lacked the bulky pauldrons and chestplate he had once sported at the height of his betrayal, though he still stood up offensively straight to compensate for his shorter stature, sneering and arrogant as ever, the deep lines of his frown and the squint of his glaring eyes even more prominent now. Alistair, on the other hand had filled out a bit, his age and more sedentary lifestyle adding a thick layer of padding to his already towering, brawny physique. And his longer, slightly greying hair and beard meant he resembled Maric more than ever.

“Just like your father…” Loghain sneered, looking up at him. “All talk, no _real_ fight in --”

Alistair’s fist met his jaw, then. Hard.

“Don’t say another _word_ about my father.” Alistair loomed over him as Loghain tried to shake off the hit.

He winced a little as he rubbed his jaw, but he was laughing as he peered back up at him. “Still a sore spot with you, eh?”

Alistair raised the other fist, but stopped himself this time when he caught the others in his peripheral vision, staring at him. Hawke looked a little too excited, like she usually did, but the rest of them looked shocked. Except Varric, maybe, who was just shaking his head in disappointment, until he was suddenly looking wide-eyed past Alistair and Hawke sucked in a giant gasp of air.

It was enough of a distraction for Loghain to rear back and slam his forehead against his chest, knocking the taller man backward. He leapt towards him, then, surprisingly spry for his age, and tackled him the rest of the way down to the ground. Alistair landed another hit to the side of his head, and Loghain fell off of him sideways, cursing while he waited for his vision to swim back into focus. It didn’t stop him from landing a kick right in the middle of Alistair’s stomach, though, knocking the wind out of him.

Hawke winced, and Varric leapt aside as Alistair curled up in the fetal position near his feet. He wasn’t about to take any chances getting caught up in this rumble.

“Gentlemen, _please_!” the Inquisitor cried, while Blackwall stood back, muttering something about “Warden in-fighting” into her ear.

Alistair sat up, waving frantically toward Loghain as he tried to catch his breath. Loghain rolled just out of his reach, eyeing him like some kind of jungle cat.

“This man turned his back on the King, my brother, and the entire Order, leaving us to be slaughtered by Darkspawn while he retreated to usurp the throne in Ferelden’s darkest hour!" he gasped. "He has no loyalty to the Order, nor to his country. And he should have been _executed_ for what he did.” 

“But he _wasn’t_,” Stroud finally interjected, stepping between them now before Loghain could pounce on him again. “Warden-Commander Amell conscripted him herself, and he survived his Joining and has been serving the Order now for more than a decade, so I’m afraid his fate is no longer yours to decide...Your Highness.” 

Loghain scoffed, looking utterly deflated, while Stroud bent his knee and bowed apologetically in front of Alistair, offering him a hand which Alistair eyed with suspicion.

“Oh, get _up_!” he finally groaned. “I’m just a Warden here, and lower-ranking than _you_, at that!” 

“Then I suggest you try to see past your differences. The Order is in danger of extinction again, I fear.” 

“Well, _most_ of the Order. Don’t forget about Sol’s rogue group down in Kal’Hirol!” Hawke felt compelled to remind everyone. 

“Or _do_. At least _try_ to forget about them. Maker knows they are near-useless…” Loghain sneered, and Stroud shot him a kind of disapproving look that was usually reserved for old married couples, not that it seemed to do anything to deter him from continuing his rant. “Frittering away their time with those monsters, trying to find a cure so they can live a few more cursed years in this Maker-forsaken world while the sky is bleeding demons and the ground is hemorrhaging blighted lyrium...” 

“Yeah, but if she _does_ figure it out, just think of the possibilities!” Hawke exclaimed. “For you...for _all_ the Wardens! You’ll have a choice...a _kind_ of...retirement. Sort of.”

“Bah! I’m old. Tired of all of it. Wasn’t even planning to live this long…” Loghain grumbled, eyeing Stroud who was shaking his head, looking somehow amused.

Alistair gritted his teeth and tried to ignore this entire exchange as he finally stood up from the ground, brushing himself off. “What do you know about Clarel’s plans at Adamant?” he asked Stroud, pointedly. 

“Not much other than foreboding rumors of demons and blood magic.” 

“Wonderful!” Varric elbowed Hawke. “Two of our specialties!”

Blackwall frowned. “This does not sound good.” And the Inquisitor nodded sternly in agreement.

…

A note delivered by raven to Morrigan at Skyhold:

_We have met up with Hawke’s contacts...plural...yes...because apparently, the Maker insists on torturing me, and it turns out that **Loghain** is one of them. I am beginning to think you were right and I should’ve stayed out of this mess. Actually, I know you were right, and I knew you were right before I left, but I’m an idiot and I just felt like it was something I had to do. Getting drunk probably didn’t help._

_Anyway, I’m out here now, and well…I’m doing my best not to die. Like I promised. The situation appears to be worse than we thought. Clarel has been working with some Tevinter Magister, and they seem to have convinced most of the Wardens to sacrifice themselves or allow themselves to be possessed by demons or something. We’ll be meeting up with the rest of the Inquisition’s forces to plan our attack in a few days, and hopefully, salvage what we can of the Order._

_Tell Kieran I miss him. And you._

_A._

… 

A note delivered by Baron Plucky himself, who, upon spying Alistair eating his supper at camp in the Western Approach, dive-bombed the poor unassuming King and demanded every piece of meat from his stew before he would release the note to him. He then scampered off into the desert to chase scorpions:

_I cannot be certain that you will get this before you arrive at the fortress to intervene, but if you do, I humbly request that you please be careful. More careful than usual. I know, from having witnessed it firsthand, that you can be prone to throwing yourself into danger in order to protect others without much forethought. Please do consider being a bit more astute. If not for your own sake, then for ours._

_And if I find out that you have gotten yourself killed protecting Loghain, of all people…so help me…_

_M._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more egregious canon-breaking...but this was important...gotta get all the Problem Parents into this story!


	10. Adamant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Alistair and the Inquisitor's companions tackle the Nightmare in the Fade, Morrigan and Fiona discuss...well...the events of the entire Dragon Age, I guess, back at Skyhold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Special thanks to irhinoceri for making Loghain and Alistair's fade time EXTRA SUPER angsty by pointing out that line Alistair has about Maric when they end up in the Fade. I totally used it here verbatim, along with a lot of other re-arranged game dialogue!)

Alistair looked up just in time to see Warden-Commander Clarel, her body broken and bloodied by the dragon, raise a fist up, uttering the cursed Warden oath, before blasting the dragon back and destroying the battlements beneath them.

And then, they were falling into the abyss. And if it weren’t for Kieran, Alistair thought, he’d have preferred this hastened plummet toward death over the prolonged descent he knew eventually awaited him as a Warden. 

But instead of landing with a splat somewhere in the scarred earth left by the Second Blight below them, they were swallowed up by ..._something_... and their landing felt more like a slow-motion plunge through a pool of molasses. He saw the others scramble in slow-motion as well, except that they somehow landed in various states of sideways and upside-down and, in the Inquisitor’s case, hovering...

“What..._happened_?” Loghain groaned, trying impossibly to find his balance as he jutted out sideways from the ground. 

“We were falling…” Blackwall murmured from somewhere below. 

Maybe _Alistair_ was the one who was sideways and upside-down? As soon as the thought occurred to him, he fell forward, just barely able to keep himself from falling flat on his face. 

“Perhaps we landed?” Hawke offered, as she sauntered out from around the edge of a floating rock, already seeming to have adapted to the weirdness. “But if this is the afterlife, the Chantry owes me an apology. This is _nothing_ like the Maker’s bosom.” 

She tossed a dagger into the air in front of her and it came right back to her, defying every rule of physics Alistair had previously been aware of. She caught it with that big shit-eating grin of hers and then tossed it over her head behind her, only to repeat the trick again. She got a look of determination on her face before throwing another as hard as she could all the way around the boulder and catching it again. 

“No.” Stroud was somewhere above them. “The Inquisitor used the Mark to open another rift. We fell through. I _believe_...we are in the _Fade_.” 

Loghain sighed, reaching a hand up to steady him as he hopped wobbly down to join him on the sideways ground. 

Yup. It seemed Alistair was _definitely_ the upside-down one. _Thud._

He stood up, brushing himself off again and eyeing the others now that _almost_ everyone was facing the same direction -- everyone except Hawke, of course, who was leaping and somersaulting gleefully from floating rock to floating rock. 

“I’ve seen my father in the Fade. I saw a demon pretending to be my sister in the Fade. But I’ve never seen _this_,” he said.

“Your -- _Maric_?” Loghain asked. “You..._found_ him?”

Alistair narrowed his eyes on him. The last time Maric had come up, they’d come to blows. But Loghain’s voice was lacking the venom it had been laced with before. And his _eyes_...perhaps he was still feeling a little disoriented.

“Yes.” Alistair nodded definitively. That’s all he planned to say about it.

“How did he… is he _still_?”

Varric gave Alistair a mournful look. He had been there. Had seen the former King in all his glory in the Fade and had seen him in his pitiful real world state, kept alive by an apparatus designed to harvest everything it could of his ‘dragon’s blood,’ and had watched as Alistair put a merciful end to his long-drained life.

Alistair shook his head. “He’s gone.”

_What right do you have to even ask?_ A voice in Loghain’s head, though it was not far off from his own in its spiteful condescension. _You betrayed Maric not once, but twice. And you will betray Stroud and the rest of them as well when the time comes and it serves your own interests…_

Loghain shook himself out of whatever it was, and the others stared at him as if he’d just grown an extra pair of arms or something. “What?”

“You..._okay_?” Hawke asked, peering curiously at him.

“As okay as one _can _be upon realizing they have somehow ended up in the Fade.”

“What you just said about betraying us all...” Alistair gripped his sword. “Not exactly very reassuring...”

_As if you could do anything about it?_ Alistair’s voice had taken on its own uncanny quality._ Why did you even come on this mission? You are less than half his age, in your supposed prime, and he is still twice the hero you’ll ever be._

Everyone’s worried glances turned to Alistair as Stroud once again came to stand between them. “This is a trick! A demon or some other wretched monster. Do not let it turn us against one another.”

_Yes...just as you have turned on your fellow Wardens and the one who gave you a chance after abandoning your honor in Orlais._

Blackwall shifted uncomfortably. “I will gladly fight demons. But I have no desire to see where they come from.”

_Oh, did you think I was referring to you?_ He laughed ruefully at himself and his eyes grew wide in panic.

“Not much of a demon if it can’t even use its own mouth,” Hawke laughed, almost as cruelly as the _thing_ that was using them as its mouthpiece. “I mean...right?”

Varric shrugged at her, and an awkward silence settled over everyone as they braced themselves for a rebuttal from the demon, but none came.

“Sooo...how do we get out of here?” the Inquisitor finally asked. Everyone’s eyes suddenly drifted up toward the glowing green rift in the near-distant Void above them.

...

Morrigan peered up at the sky, searching for Leliana’s favorite bird among the unkindness of ravens that was circling overhead, riding the currents of air from the west down into the aviary. It had been a week since she had sent her reply to Alistair via Baron Plucky, and there had been little news about the Inquisition’s efforts with the Wardens in the Approach. There had, however, been a few noteworthy intelligence reports that Leliana had forwarded to her about Corypheus' agents ransacking ancient ruins in the Arbor Wilds, but she could hardly be expected to focus on mere matters of arcane interest, what with Kieran’s incessant worrying.

"When will he be back?" the boy asked for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

"I am but a humble witch, not a fortune-teller…" Morrigan drawled as her eyes drifted back down toward their work together in the garden. They were harvesting rashvine nettle, and the stinging barbs for which it was named had asserted themselves in a bid for her attention whenever it had drifted too far. She had suggested that Kieran start collecting ingredients for the potion-makers at Skyhold and assisting them in their craft in an attempt to keep him busy with something practical, something concrete, something...within_ her_ capacity to control.

"_Dorian_ can do time magic! Do you think he could speed things up to the point in the future when he returns?”

His fretting over Alistair's return from the Western Approach had become obsessive over the past few days, and the fact that his impatience echoed her own was almost nearly as vexing.

"I'm afraid it doesn't seem to work quite like that," Morrigan sighed, “As nobody knows for certain _when_ they will return…” _Or if_. She normally did not like to shield her son from any of the cruel possibilities of the world, but she chose to omit her own fears from these conversations...for _his_ sake.

"How do _you_ know how time magic works?!"

"Enough, Kieran!” she snapped. She sighed when she saw the dejected look on his face and took out a notepad and charcoal pencil from a pouch at her waist, scribbling something hurriedly onto the paper. “Do you think you can deliver this request to the Quartermaster for me?”

He nodded apologetically. “Yes, Mother…” But then he perked up excitedly as another thought occurred to his ever-active mind. "May I go speak with Dorian when I'm done?"

"Yes. Fine.” She waved him along. “But do not _pester_ him!” she called out as he hurried toward the mage’s study, foregoing the Quartermaster’s Office entirely.

Grand Enchanter Fiona had been harvesting herbs in the garden nearby, and Morrigan couldn’t help but notice the fond little smirk that revealed the fact that she’d heard at least some of this exchange between them. Morrigan might have chosen to ignore her, if she hadn’t been waiting for a reason to speak with her since they had arrived. Leliana had expressed some hope that she might be better suited to finding out more about Fiona’s mysterious dismissal from the Wardens, and, more importantly, her apparent resistance to the Taint, since her own attempts at interrogation had turned out to be rather fruitless.

“Grand Enchanter…” She nodded toward her in acknowledgment.

"I’m sorry. I just overheard, and...well, I can't imagine how difficult raising a child must be, at any time, but in such uncertain times...and on your own?”

"I have not been _entirely_ alone in this endeavour."

"Ah. So his father _is_ involved?" An impertinent question, but Morrigan was willing to forgive her if it meant she might share some secrets of her own.

"He _is_..." Morrigan’s lips twitched into a smile. "Not as much as he would like, I am certain, but we have found ways to make it work.”

"I see…”

"He has other responsibilities which make it a rather delicate situation,” Morrigan explained hastily. “But he is a _good_ man...if there can be such a thing. And a good father.”

"These things are always so much bigger than ourselves.” Fiona nodded. “Does your son resent either of you? For making these tough decisions on his behalf?"

“I hope not overly much. He is a clever boy. He has seen much and knows even more. I would like to believe he understands that we have always acted in his best interest. But he _is_ still a child.” She smirked. “With a child's impatience.”

“Yes. I can see that.” Fiona smiled warmly at her, almost knowingly, and the familiarity was a bit unsettling.

“Mmhm…” Morrigan hummed, eyeing the woman more suspiciously now. There was something more to this conversation, something behind Fiona’s interest in her and Kieran and their relationship with his father. She wondered if it had something to do with the circumstances of his conception...if Fiona had some lingering knowledge or suspicions from her time with the Wardens. Yet it had thus far failed to get Morrigan any closer to the topic of her supposed ‘un-Taintedness.’

Fiona seemed to sense her heightened wariness, too, as Morrigan’s eyes flickered darkly over her, trying to assess her intentions. “I mean no harm to you or your family,” she tried to reassure her.

“I..._believe_ you.” Morrigan looked and sounded more surprised by this admission than anything.

“I simply find myself musing more and more on the sorts of clever tricks the Maker plays on us all.”

_Finally..._an opening, and Morrigan did not hesitate to swoop in and take it. “And what _cleverness_ has the Maker bestowed upon _you_, Grand Enchanter?”

"Just _Fiona_ now." She corrected her, with another wry smile. “The Circles are no more, their titles and hierarchies should be done away with as well.”

“‘Tis surely no small thing. Do you trust that these freedoms will last?”

“That remains to be seen. It seems we have a world to save first. And if we succeed, I will do everything I can to remind the future Divine, if there is to be a Divine, of the part mages played in that.”

“Is that why you are here?”

“I was not really given much of a choice. When the Inquisitor thwarted Alexius’ plan, the King of Ferelden left us to the mercy of the Inquisition.” She winced at this, shaking her head with a little laugh.

“But you certainly _chose_ to pledge yourself and the mages who followed you in service to a Tevinter Magister. What did you really think would come of it?”

“I -- _we_ were desperate. We believed an army of Templars was on their way to strike us down at Redcliffe. The Venatori and their agents had infiltrated our ranks. I only learned after the fact that Alexius had used his ‘time magic’ repeatedly to remove every other alternative we might have had.”

Morrigan caught herself glancing worriedly in the direction Kieran had hurried off to.

“Dorian, while flashy and arrogant, would never attempt such a reckless feat. And Alexius...he had _other_ motivations for his meddling. Beyond serving ‘The Elder One,’ and restoring Tevinter to the height of its power, that is.”

“What other motivations?”

“His son, Felix. He suffered from Blight sickness. And the man would’ve burned the entire world to save him were it not for the Inquisitor’s timely intervention.”

Well, _this_ was certainly a convenient turn in the conversation! “How did _you_ become immune to the Darkspawn Taint?” Morrigan asked, finally feeling victorious.

But it was Fiona’s turn to look taken aback at the intrusiveness of her questioning. “What interest is that to you? _You_ are not a Grey Warden.”

“No, but I have...dear friends in the Wardens who would _also_ like to avoid the grim fate of a doomed descent into the Deep Roads. Indeed, ‘twas _I_ who found the lead the Hero of Ferelden now follows into the Western lands in her search for a cure.”

“It was by no doing of my own, I assure you.” Fiona’s face went stony and distant. “And _my_ particular experience has been deemed ‘unrepeatable.’” 

Morrigan had not considered that Fiona’s immunity might have been an accident or the result of some unfortunate trauma. She had merely assumed, like the Dark Ritual, it was some ancient magic or hidden knowledge she’d stumbled upon and kept close out of fear that it might be turned against her in some way. 

“‘Tis a pity.” Morrigan frowned. She got the sense that she would be getting nothing more out of her on this matter.

“Yes. It is. And please extend my sincere apologies to the Spymaster, as well.”

Morrigan nodded cautiously, and Fiona looked up at her with a sudden yearning in her eyes. “If I _could_ help him, surely _you_, of all people, know that I would…?”

“Who?” Was this still about Alexius' son? Morrigan refused to entertain the possibility that she could be referring to Kieran.

“No one. Nevermind.” She shook her head, and the intensity vanished instantly. “You no doubt have much more important matters to attend to than the concerns of an old woman. I apologize for prying.”

“I -- “

“Good day,” Fiona murmured, turning away from her, and hurrying across the garden.

Morrigan gathered up her and Kieran’s bundles of rashvine nettles, cursing at the barbs as they pierced the palms of her hands, and made her way toward the Quartermaster’s Office before heading to the mage’s tower to drop off the ingredients and supplies that Kieran had been meant to fetch. She had an appointment with Leliana for tea that she did not intend to miss on account of the unsettling nosiness of the _former_ Grand Enchanter.

…

Alistair was ready. Ready to be back on the other side of the Veil, away from this Nightmare that could sense his deepest fears and insecurities and turn them like knives in his chest, almost as well as Morrigan. He was done trying to ignore the weirdly apologetic glances from Loghain every time the Nightmare tried to turn them against each other, or, when that failed, themselves. He was done with the spirit of the Divine, or whoever she was, and all her ‘revelations’ and cryptic messages. And he was ready to finish whatever remained of the battle at Adamant. If _anything_ remained of Adamant. The Order had been decimated by its own self-sacrificing stupidity, and he found he hardly cared anymore after falling off the edge of the world while fleeing a red lyrium-crazed dragon who served the whims of a resurrected ancient Magister.

He was ready to be done with all of it. The only thing that mattered anymore to him was to get back to Skyhold and to his son. So when the Inquisitor finally managed to rip another hole in time and space and..._whatever_…for them to jump through, he was ready.

But of course, there was a catch. There was _always_ a catch.

“Go! I’ll cover you! I think I can take this thing!” Hawke cried out, when it was clear that someone was going to have to stay behind and distract the cursed monster standing between them and the rift.

Varric rolled his eyes and turned to look pleadingly at the rest of them. “I’m gonna be in deep shit with a whole bunch of people if you all let _her_ do this…”

“The Grey Wardens caused this…” Stroud nodded, stepping in front of her. “And so a _Warden_ should be the one to -- ”

“We’ll need as many of you as we can spare to rebuild the Order!” Hawke balked. “Corypheus is my fault. Consider it a sort of..._family_ obligation. I’ll stay back. And then, do something really badass at the last minute, and...” She eyed the creature with a sort of defiance, and it would have been a convincing performance if Varric hadn’t been there with his cursed sorrowful head shaking.

“This is all rather touching…” Loghain looked around at them all with utter disdain. “But I think it’s fairly obvious that _I_ should stay. I’m the oldest and the only one who can be trusted not to fuck it up.”

Stroud frowned, pulling him aside. “I was _already_ hearing it,” he huffed. “Before Corypheus… before all of this. I’d rather go out doing something like _this_ than lose another night of sleep to the call of an Archdemon.”

“And I’m _what_? A few months away from hearing it myself?” Loghain hissed. “We talked about this. We were going to do it together. What’s the difference, really, if we face our doom together here in the Fade or in the Deep Roads?”

“I’m sorry. I really am. There’s no one else I’d rather march boldly…defiantly…” Stroud’s eyes softened and his mouth quirked into a fond little smile. ”..._spitefully_ toward death with. But you may have _years_ left, you stubborn old bastard. You should try to make the most of them.”

Loghain laughed at that, but it lacked his usual bitterness. “Yes. Waiting around to be beckoned to a lonely demise in the abyss…sounds _quite_ enjoyable.”

Stroud wrapped his arm around Loghain’s neck, and pulled their foreheads together. “You’re one helluva leader, Mac Tir, when you want to be. And _whatever_ remains of the Order needs _you_ more than they need me. I’m afraid it’s time for you to step up once again, Old Man.”

The rest of them stood back, watching the two men bicker through their goodbye, while Blackwall covered the Inquisitor as she continued to hold the rift open behind the monster. 

Alistair grimaced, suddenly tempted to volunteer himself if it could spare him the unexpected and unwanted pity he was feeling for Loghain at the moment. But then he thought of Kieran and Morrigan. He knew that if he stayed behind, she’d probably find a way to get to him and kill him herself.

“This is…” Varric began.

“Fucking awful, is what it is,” Hawke gasped, wiping tears from her eyes. 

“Yeah…” Alistair concurred. “But we probably _do_ need to get going soonish, while the Inquisitor still has the rift open?”

“Give us a _moment_…” Loghain growled, turning angrily toward them, but Stroud grabbed his chin and pulled him back hastily into a kiss.

Loghain’s arms wrapped around Stroud’s shoulders as he pressed his lips back hard against him, and then the two of them shared one final embrace.

“Goodbye,” Loghain muttered against his cheek. 

“I love you,” Stroud squeezed him tight through their armor. “Promise me you’ll write to your daughter, at least?”

“I love you, too…”

Stroud waited a moment before finally pulling away and clapping Loghain on the shoulder with a light clang of metal on metal. He nodded dutifully to the rest of them, then he turned, raising his shield and his sword and bellowed, “For the WARDENS!!!” as he charged directly toward the center of the thing, pulling its attention away from the rift.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Loghain muttered, trudging past Hawke, Alistair, and Varric as he made his way forward toward the rift, hacking at stray limbs and other pieces of the monster left behind by the Divine’s attack and clearing the way for the rest of them as they followed solemnly behind.

He continued stomping all the way through to the other side of the Veil without another look back, slamming his sword into one of the rage demons that awaited them there.

Alistair took a moment to regain his bearings after being dumped abruptly back into the waking world, then hurried to keep up with Loghain, as he recklessly launched himself into the fight that remained, while the Inquisitor worked to close the rift behind them.

_…so help me…_

He smiled. Morrigan’s usually careful and precise handwriting had been a bit rushed, a bit urgent. He’d noticed, even though he was sure she’d probably taken pains to try and hide it. And he could only imagine what she would do now if she saw him putting himself between the old man and a despair demon who’d managed to follow them out of the rift.

“Don’t you _dare_…” he heard her snarling, a voice in his head, much like the Nightmare had felt, but _her_ voice felt strangely..._welcome_. He couldn’t do anything but laugh about that as he turned, raising his sword to attack the thing as it reared back, throwing off its hood and revealing its rows and rows and rows of teeth with an icy roar, just as Loghain yelled “Duck!” and threw his shield at it, cutting it clean in half. 

With the disconcerting sound of the Inquisitor’s activated mark reverberating through his bones, and the accompanying pressure change that always left Alistair with the same awful feeling of having been cuffed roughly around the ears, the Inquisitor finally slammed the rift closed. And the battle was over.

Loghain stooped down to pick up his shield and to finally catch his breath, and Alistair walked toward him. “I’m...sorry. About Stroud. I didn’t realize you two were...”

“Shut up.” Loghain’s chest was heaving, but there was still enough fight left in his eyes that he could probably drag him down to the ground with him and get a few kicks in if he wanted to.

“That’s...fair. I _guess_…?” Alistair offered him a hand as the older man began to stand back up, and to his surprise, he took it. Smaller, more bony, and shaking far more than Alistair would have expected, he closed his fingers around Alistair’s warm, thick, steadying hand and pulled himself up.

Varric was not far off, yanking crossbow bolts out of a pile of unidentifiable flesh. “Stroud may still make it out of there...somehow.” 

He glanced back hopefully at the Inquisitor, who was bent over vomiting after over-exerting herself with the rift, while Hawke rubbed her back and gave them all a thumbs-up. Blackwall said something about “Fade sickness” to the small group of soldiers that had turned their attention to the Inquisitor now that the battle had ended.

“Yeah!” Hawke nodded excitedly. “Through another rift or something maybe?” She shrugged as the Inquisitor retched again, this time hitting Blackwall’s boots directly.

“Do none of you _ever _cease this inane chattering?” Loghain bellowed. He released Alistair’s hand, which Alistair had forgotten he was still holding, and stomped away, pushing through the gathering crowd.

After Cullen and Cassandra had finished taking stock of the damages and accounting for their losses, which ended up being far less to the Inquisition than what anyone had initially expected, it was eventually decided that Hawke would accompany Loghain to Weisshaupt to report to whatever remained of the Wardens there, much to Alistair’s relief.

Hawke said her goodbyes with her usual pluckiness, exchanging several full-bodied bear hugs with Varric and a slightly more restrained embrace with Alistair, then she looped her arm around Loghain’s elbow. “So…to the Anderfels, then, Old Man?”

“_You_ may not call me that.”

“Warden Uncle Traitor, then?”

He nodded, smiling faintly at her in spite of himself. “You sure do seem to care an awful lot about the fate of the Order, Champion. Sure you don’t want to try your luck with the Joining ritual yourself?”

“No _thank_ you! Can’t really stand the sight, smell, or _taste_ of blood.” She winked, knowing full well she was still covered in it from the battle.

Loghain chuckled. “Maybe don’t smear it across your face, then?”

She smiled to reveal that blood had somehow gotten on her teeth, as well. Whether it was her own or someone or some_thing_ else’s was hard to say.

“You are a truly disgusting woman.”

“And _you_ are a villainous wretch. And _I_ think we’re just the pair to save what’s left of the Wardens.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being very long (for me) and therefore, very hard for me and my limited attention span to edit. I tried to cut some of the dialogue down, but there was just a lot that needed to be said here if we're aiming for maximum parental angstyness.


	11. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair returns to Skyhold and Kieran spills the beans on his mother's fretting.

It was infuriating, really, considering the vast network of spies Leliana had at her disposal, that no one could seem to give a definitive answer about when exactly to expect the Inquisition’s forces to return from Adamant. But with the sensitivity of their mission and timelines, and the as-yet-unknown whereabouts of Corypheus or his other general, the Inquisition had grounded their ravens until the Inquisitor had been escorted safely back to Skyhold. All Morrigan had was an official report, over a week old now, that the Wardens under Corypheus’ control at Adamant had been 'subdued.' And a slightly older report from Leliana about Corypheus’ agents searching the ruins in the Arbor Wilds for some kind of ‘mirror’ that she’d been ignoring for far too long.

There were a great deal of other unofficial rumors and murmurings, of course, leaked through unchecked channels of communication. She knew that several of Skyhold’s occupants kept illicit message crystals, ancient Dwarven technology co-opted by Tevinter, and word travelled by mouth among the merchants and other agents who came and went from the fortress already bearing tales of how the Inquisitor had thwarted another Blight single-handedly. Every last Warden had been possessed by demons or made thralls to a Venatori blood mage who spit fire, but had impeccable taste. One Warden had heroically sacrificed himself fighting some kind of demon-monster, while another had blown up the entire fortress when Corypheus’ red lyrium dragon showed up to challenge the Inquisitor for control of the Wardens. The Inquisitor and her companions had supposedly ‘fallen’ into the Fade and come right back out of it again unscathed. Weisshaupt had disappeared altogether. It was impossible to say which of these were true and which were exaggerations, but none of the rumors seemed to concern the King of Ferelden. Surely, if something had happened to _him_, it’d have made its way into these tall tales?

Morrigan had half a mind to fly west and scout for the returning party herself, but she did not wish to leave Kieran alone at such a time and in such a place with so many other people she did not know and could not trust...even with Leliana to look after him. She was beginning to regret leaving behind their quiet, secluded life at court in Orlais, conveniently insulated by the paranoia of Celene’s delicate political position and the maneuverings of The Game, which they had no real stake in. But that environment of extreme distrust and fear had eventually become stifling in her pursuit of knowledge, as well. And it certainly was ill-suited to Kieran’s development. This was better, she told herself. They just needed to be patient. Alistair would return and her brain would be less preoccupied with comforting her son’s incessant worrying about his father and she could return to her part in all of this without all these..._distractions_.

She stared blankly down at the passage she’d found in an ancient tome from Tevinter on ‘mirror communication’ that she’d been hopelessly trying to read over now for twenty minutes. The mirrors were obviously more than communication devices -- she’d determined that quickly enough on her own all those years ago before stepping through one -- but if she could get closer to the source of Corypheus’ understanding of them, she thought she might find some new thread or wisp of information to pursue in her quest to at least understand what _he_ intended to do with them if his people found one. She already knew that there had been more. She had seen them in the ‘Crossroads,’ most of them sealed, broken, or otherwise corrupted, but none had ever led her directly into the Fade, however powerful and ancient the magic that created them might have been.

A ‘network’ Briala had called them, belonging to _her_ people, and she seemed to think she had unlocked their secrets beyond what Morrigan had been capable of. Indeed, she had done far more with them in thwarting Celene and Gaspard in all their political machinations against one another, and supporting the city elves of Orlais whose champion she claimed to be, than Morrigan had ever done in simply seeking the sanctuary they provided ‘between’ worlds, away from her mother and those who might have sought to harm her or her infant son in the years immediately following the Blight. But Briala had said nothing more about them to her before things had escalated that night at the Winter Palace...or since. Not even when Leliana had reached out to her on behalf of the Inquisition. It seemed whatever goodwill or understanding there had been between the three women at court in Orlais had been stretched too thin by the ruthlessness of the civil war and the unjust and disproportionate violence of it that had been carried out with near-impunity on the elves.

Morrigan glanced back down at the page, realizing her mind had begun to wander yet again. How hard should it be to read a few words and compile a summary of her theories for the Inquisitor and her advisors? Perhaps a change of venue was in order? The library _was_ stuffy, and with Dorian peering over her shoulder every few minutes asking if she needed any help translating or ‘understanding anything,’ it was easy to get distracted, if not infuriated. She wedged her blank slip of parchment into the book to hold her place and snapped it shut, tucking it under her arm as she headed toward the ramparts for some fresh air.

But as she opened the heavy wooden door, in addition to an overly-refreshing gust of freezing wind, there was a sudden deafening blare of horns from the watchtower. She gasped, then held her breath and the door until she heard the distant answering horns of the approaching party crossing the bridge to the main gates of the fortress. She didn’t even bother to peer out over the ramparts to try and see who it was before she found herself hurrying past Dorian, back down the steps toward the gates.

Many of Skyhold’s other residents had also heard the horns and begun to assemble at the gates in order to welcome them back, but Morrigan pushed impatiently through the crowd that was gathering around the Inquisitor. She searched feverishly for Alistair among the Inquisitor’s entourage, but he had already steered his horse around the side and into the courtyard in order to avoid all the congested fanfare. She shoved her way back through the crowd again until at last, she reached him, her hands resting on her hips as she tried not to look too out-of-breath or relieved at the sight of him.

"Morrigan..." Alistair beamed down at her as he slowly, stiffly dismounted from his horse, grimacing slightly.

She was too winded to answer him right away, and shivering slightly now that she had stopped to realize how under-dressed she was for the sudden change in temperature as the sun was just setting behind him over the Frostbacks, reflecting its oranges in her frantic eyes and the pink in her cheeks. 

"You didn't need to -- " he began, but she shook her head, looking suddenly very cross with him.

"You could have at _least_ found some way to send word ahead that you were returning!" she finally managed to blurt out as she swatted at his free arm. He flinched at the sound of her palm slapping against the thick leather hide. It must've stung her far more than it did him, yet she seemed unaffected. "Kieran was very worried!” 

"Ah, _Kieran_...yes. I'll have to apologize. To _him_." 

"Please do." 

"_Now_? Or…?" 

"Now is preferable. Unless you have more urgent matters to attend to than the emotional well-being of our son…?"

She hadn’t even hesitated to say ‘our son,’ and Alistair might have had a chance to marvel at that, except that, right on cue, Kieran had come running to meet them from the mages' tower and he threw his arms around Alistair’s waist, nearly knocking him over. Luckily, his horse was behind him to catch their fall, though the horse, weary from its journey, did not seem particularly pleased with either of them.

"Now is fine,” Alistair laughed, his eyes twinkling at Morrigan still. “I’m so very sorry for worrying you, _Kieran_." 

“It’s okay!” Kieran was staring up at him and didn’t seem to mind that he appeared to still be directing his attention at his mother. “Will you be staying here at Skyhold from now on?”

“For some time, I hope.” He finally grinned down at him, allowing the feeling of dizzying warmth he felt to wash over his battle- and travel-wearied body. It felt familiar, a distant memory that wasn’t his, almost like a dream or a really good glass of whiskey, or some wonderful kind of magic he’d only ever heard of.

"Good." She nodded definitively. "We shall have dinner brought to our quarters, then." 

"_Our_?" He couldn't let it go a second time. 

"Mine and _Kieran's_!" She explained hastily, nodding less assuredly to _their_ son. 

"Oh. Right. Of course. _Yours_..." He tried not to smile so obviously at her, but it was impossible not to once he noticed the way her cheeks had begun to darken even further. 

“Come, Kieran. You will need to finish with your studies for the day and wash up.”

Kieran looked up pleadingly at Alistair who only shrugged down at him apologetically.

“Better do as she says…”

“_Fine_,” the boy drawled and the two of them walked back across the courtyard as Alistair led his horse to its own much-deserved dinner.

He’d follow them, of course, just as soon as he’d had a chance to speak to Leliana and change out of his travel clothes. He had a message to convey to her before it slipped from his mind like most of the memories of this most recent trip to the Fade had already begun to do, thank the Maker. He was sure she would want to debrief in greater detail, but that part could wait. Until after dinner, at least.

...

“_Mother_ was worried about you,” Kieran finally blurted out, becoming impatient with the awkward smirks and sideways glances that their conversation had been reduced to somewhere into the second or third course after all the obligatory_ “So you survived?” “Yes.” “How was it?” “Awful. And how were things here?” “Fine.” “Good.” _had been covered.

Her eyes narrowed on him as Alistair smiled appreciatively at his son. “I hope _you_, at least, had some faith in me.”

“Of course! _I_ knew you’d come back. I told her we just had to be patient.”

Alistair glanced over at Morrigan as she sputtered exaggeratedly into her wine glass.

“_Yes_…” she drawled, pulling it slowly away from her lips. “While suddenly taking a positively _fervent_ interest in time magic. Unrelated, I’m sure.”

Alistair laughed and Kieran rolled his eyes at his mother, who lifted her eyebrow at him with a little nod and a wink. If the boy was going to out her like this, he had better be prepared for her to do the same to him.

Not that Kieran seemed to mind the teasing. He couldn’t stop beaming at either one of them, looking back and forth between them as they eased into this strange little glimpse of domesticity. The three of them sitting down for an evening meal together like this _was_ a rare and wonderful treat for him, and his enthusiasm seemed to be slightly contagious.

Or perhaps ‘twas just the wine.

Nevertheless, they took their time with the rest of dinner, complete with tiny, frilly Orlesian cakes for dessert which Kieran had requested, something he was missing from Orlais, and Alistair had tolerated. After Kieran’s fourth or fifth request for a retelling of the first time Alistair saw Morrigan change into a bear or the time Zevran dared Leliana to hide his clothes in Morrigan’s tent while he was bathing and he had to borrow Wynne’s extra robe because he refused to ask her to bring them to him, Morrigan sighed and stood up to clear the table.

“It is late, Kieran. Perhaps we should let Alistair head back to his quarters and rest. He has just come a long way after what sounds like a rather _arduous_ few weeks.”

“It’s alright!” Alistair stood up abruptly to assist her in collecting the plates and silverware, but froze, trying to mask a painful grimace as his body seized up, proving him wrong.

Morrigan could barely hide the sudden concern that flashed across her face before she nodded Kieran toward his room. “You will have plenty of time to pester your father for stories in the morning.”

Alistair slumped slowly, gingerly back down into his chair, clutching at the sudden pain in his side once Kieran was out of sight, and Morrigan frowned at him. She had not even realized he was injured.

“What is it?”

“Nothing!” He tried to wave her frown aside. “I’m just a little sore. Not really used to so much combat anymore...or long trips via horseback. Almost makes me miss the boring comforts of life back in Denerim.” Her frown only deepened and he cringed apologetically. “_Almost_.”

“You should have said something. We would have let you see a healer instead of monopolizing your entire evening.”

“I’m fine, really!” She set the dishes back down onto the table as he continued to unconvincingly try and mask his discomfort. “And I’d much rather spend my time here with you and Kieran than -- ” he trailed off as she knelt suddenly down beside him, shoving his hands away and reaching for the edge of his shirt.

His first reaction of course, was to try to lurch out of her reach, but his body resisted the sudden movement.

“Let me see, you stubborn idiot!” 

She pinned him back down into his chair somehow, scrabbling over him like a giant spider, and he raised his hands up in defeat, a bit terrified and, he realized, maybe more than a little bit aroused.

"You were _worried_ about me!" he laughed nervously to try to avoid thinking about _that_, as she grabbed the bottom of his shirt again and yanked it up to inspect his injuries. "You _care…_"

“Stop squirming,” she grunted as he twisted away from her touch involuntarily, wincing at the twinge in his muscles.

“Stop tickling me!” he whined back at her.

Morrigan pressed her hands firmly against his skin and he felt the sudden rush of her magic, hurried and impatient and searching him from the inside out. “These bruises certainly appear to be more than just nothing.”

Alistair _tried_ to sit still, but it was difficult to relax as she began more thoroughly exploring and tutting disapprovingly at his exposed torso.

It didn’t help that this was different than he remembered it. Her hands were much warmer, for one thing. She had never claimed to be much of a healer, but before Wynne had joined them during the Blight, and whenever Solona had depleted her own mana turning their attackers inside out in her early overzealousness for combat, Morrigan would begrudgingly step in to heal their more serious wounds. And, like many of her earliest interactions with him, he remembered her magic feeling harsh and cold, if not skillful and efficient. She’d certainly never bothered to make _his_ comfort a priority when repairing a broken rib or drawing out the magical poison from an assassin’s enchanted dagger. But healing bruises? Fussing over minor injuries and aching muscles? She had usually left these things to them to sort out through less magical methods.

But then he was reminded of one of his first visits to Orlais. Kieran had fallen and skinned his knee in one of the Imperial courtyards while they sat with Leliana, who was musing cryptically about her latest visit to the Free Marches. He had run to his mother for comfort, of course, though Alistair had longed for an opportunity to be the one to dry his tears and kiss his booboos. And Leliana had watched them with quiet interest as Morrigan effortlessly healed the scrape and quelled Kieran’s whimpering with a light touch and a little hug, before admonishing him for not being more careful around the fountain. 

Alistair, feeling perhaps even more wounded by this than the boy, told him it wasn’t _his_ fault he’d fallen, while glaring at Morrigan for being so cold and refusing to coddle their son. She had rolled her eyes at him, exchanging a _look_ with Leliana and excusing herself from their company altogether for the afternoon while he spent the rest of his time catching up with his son.

He had allowed himself to feel so inadequate and resentful, then, when what he _should have_ been, he realized now, was grateful that Kieran had been able to spend so much of his life in such warm and capable hands. Hands that were now placed on _him_, pouring all that warmth and magic into injuries he’d gotten because of his idiotic desire to throw himself into something bigger and more hopeless than his existing responsibilities because at least he wouldn’t be blamed when he inevitably failed at this, too.

Things _had_ changed between them, though, hadn’t they? Slowly...weirdly...not without plenty of misfires and hurt feelings and half-guarded emotions. It wasn’t _just_ the fact that they had a child together and wanted the best for him. They weren’t just older, or less headstrong...or _whatever_ it was that was supposed to happen as people grew up and became wiser and better at things. Even without the desperation that had made them parents, and kept them in each other’s lives for so much longer than either had expected when they’d met more than a decade ago, Alistair realized if he suddenly were given a choice in _any_ of it now, it would be her.

He leaned down without thinking, capturing her lips in a tentative, half-formed kiss of gratitude, and she jumped away from him with a hiss, yanking all her soothing magic with her.

“Sorry!” he yelped, as much from the withdrawal of her magic as he was startled by his own sudden boldness. What had come over him?!

Her eyes grew wide as she looked from the half-healed bruises on his side to his lips that had just been pressed far too sweetly against hers. 

“I just...can I? Can _we_ \-- kiss you?” He shook his head, and tried taking a breath before asking again. “Can _I _kiss_ you_, and then, of course, if you want to kiss _me_…” 

His nervous grin, his eyes, the desperate crinkles at the corners of them, all of it was begging her to be kind as she considered her response, but she remained silent, looking close to panicked now, which Alistair obviously took to mean he was completely wrong about everything and probably a wine-drunk idiot, to boot.

“I’m sorry. I’ll just…” He stood up, wincing again, and tucked his shirt back in as best he could while avoiding his bruises.

“Alistair...” Her voice was hoarse, almost a whisper.

He didn’t dare look back up at her as he gathered his things to leave. “What?”

“You should stay.”

“You want me to…” He looked almost as shocked as she had looked a few seconds ago when he’d kissed her. 

“_Stay_.” She nodded, slowly, decisively. “Yes.”

“Stay the night? _Here_? With _you_?” His voice had somehow managed to pitch a whole octave higher by the time he’d finished asking.

She rolled her eyes. "Men are always willing to believe two things about a woman -- one, that she is weak, and two, that she finds him attractive."

"So you're saying you think I'm attractive?" He tried to say it with all his usual sarcasm but unlike his previous attempt at conversation, it came out quite flat, and a bit too earnest-sounding. "It's the beard, isn't it?" _Maker_, he was a mess!

"Thank you.” She smirked. “For proving my point."

He cleared his throat, ready to give it yet another try. “While I _do_ always enjoy fueling your spite, I’ve never thought of you as weak.” He reached tentatively for her hand, and when she allowed him to grasp it, he felt brave enough to finish the compliment. “Far from it, actually. _You_ are one of the strongest people I’ve ever known."

Her golden eyes bore into him as he pulled her knuckles gently to his lips, daring him to look away from them just long enough to notice the darkening of her cheeks. He _hadn’t_ imagined it, then, when she’d met him at the gates, but the look she was giving him _now_ was making him feel things that he wasn’t sure he knew what to do with.

Alistair swallowed as she shifted her weight ever-so-slightly in his direction, and he became suddenly aware of his own obvious blushing.

"Do not make me regret this," she said. It was as much of a threat as it was a plea. But there was an unmistakable vulnerability at risk of being exposed in her trembling voice that Alistair understood well enough...

_Please be gentle with me_.

"I will do my best,” he nodded, lowering her hand away from his lips without letting go. He watched her carefully as he squeezed it in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. He could never be sure with her what kind of touches would be welcome and which would be met with disdain, but he was looking forward to having an opportunity to maybe try and figure some of that out.

She breathed in, then on the exhale, pressed her spindly fingers into the spaces between his thick, calloused knuckles as she tensed, but did not let go or back away.

She _supposed_ she trusted him more than anyone else in this world to be kind and good, even though she sometimes despised him for it. And in this moment, she was finding it hard not to want to lose herself in the security and safety he would have promised her long ago if she would have allowed it. 

She took another step toward him, closing most of the remaining distance between them.

“But hey…” he whispered softly above her ear as she leaned in closer, testing the idea of an embrace.

“_What_?” she huffed. She was feeling very nearly overstimulated and the hint of mirth that had crept into his voice was just another layer of complicated emotional information she couldn’t possibly be expected to deal with.

“It can’t be much worse than last time, right?”

“_Why_ would you…?” she groaned, pressing a hand against his chest, as if she might push him away.

“Well, it’s just that -- ”

"We have entirely different _goals_ this time.” She flattened her palm against him, and he couldn’t be sure if the heat he felt suddenly rushing through his shirt, through him, was from her magic or just..._her_. “I mean, _presumably_, yes?”

"_Oh_? You mean you’re _not _trying to conceive a child to host the soul of another Archdemon?"

She glared at him, and it helped to restore a bit of familiarity to the moment, at least, if he could ignore the wry little twist at the corner of her dark lips and the way her fingers had begun to knead the muscles and tendons just below his collarbone seemingly of their own volition. "If you are trying to insure that this does not happen, please continue…”

Alistair laughed. "Alright, then. I’ll stop trying to impress you with my self-deprecating charm, and try sweeping you off your feet with my unpracticed skills as a lover, instead."

Morrigan’s fingertips scrabbled more urgently toward his collar. “Please…_just_ \-- before I change my mind...”

He smiled, then leaned forward, ducking his chin as he loomed slowly over her. She lifted her face up impatiently and their lips met.

‘Twas almost unbearable to Morrigan, how soft and careful and tentative it all felt. And she felt ridiculous about the way her heart was racing and the way her stomach flipped over as she inhaled the unexpectedly familiar scent of him -- sweat and leather and fennec fur, with a nearly imperceptible hint of rosemary, even though it was clear he hadn't properly bathed in some time. She reached her hand up when she realized it was still there between them, grazing his cheekbone clumsily as she tried to maneuver it out of the way with no real idea what she intended to do with it. His whole body tensed at the unexpected touch. He was just as fragile as he’d been that night more than a decade ago. And she...she was perhaps even moreso without the nudge of urgency they both had felt back then.

She took another breath, her chest pressing against him as she tried to will him to trust _her_ like she already knew she could trust him, even though she’d done little to earn it. She slid her hand carefully down around to the back of his neck and pulled his face closer, tilting her head to the side as she parted her lips. 

He followed her lead, putting his arms around her waist and pulling her in tighter. His fingers dug into her back, and then relaxed again, spreading apart so he could gather up even more of her as she strained to reach the rest of his mouth.

“Is this okay?” he finally gasped, breaking away reluctantly for a moment. 

She nodded hastily, rising up on her toes and yanking him back down into another open-mouthed kiss as she began to pull him toward her bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this certainly turned into a lot of introspection! Whoops!


End file.
